no good talking like this," she said gently; "I know I
shouldn't."

He leant nearer to her, peering into her face. "Well, will you think
about it--will you think it over?" He felt certain that when she
thought of that home of her own, she would be bound to relent--any
woman would. "Let me know some other time."

"If you like. I don't know why you should be so good to me."

Passionately he seized her arm with his hand. "Because I love
you--don't you see?"

"Yes; I see. I shouldn't think there's much to love in me though."

"Wouldn't you? My God--I do! Will you give me a kiss?"

One would think he might have known that that was the last thing he
should have asked for. One would think he might have realized that
passion was the last thing he should have shown her at such a moment
as that. But he fancied that any woman might want to be kissed under
the circumstances. He had a vague idea that his passion might awaken
emotion in her; that with the touch of his lips, she might drop her
arms about his neck and swoon into submission. He did not know the
fiddle string upon which he was playing; he did not know the fine
edge upon which all her thoughts were balancing.

She drew quickly away from him; freed her arm and turned towards the
house with lips tight pressed together.

"I'm going in," she said.

CHAPTER VIII

But she had promised to think it over. He kept her to that. Again
it was the hunter, the quarry, and the inevitable flight. The thought
of her possible escape quickened his pulses. He became infinitely
more determined to make her his own. The recollection of her saying
that she did not love him was humiliating, but it stirred him to
deeper feelings of desire. When he thought of her--as at
first--readily accepting him and his prospects, he had not formed
so high opinion of her as now, being at her mercy.

She stood before his eyes that night as he lay in bed. One vague dream
after another filled his sleep, and Sally took part in them
all--kissing him, scorning him. His mental vision was obsessed with
the sight of her.

With Sally herself, sleep came late--reluctantly--like a tired man,
dragging himself to his journey's end.

Janet was seated up in bed, reading and smoking, when she returned.
While she was taking off her clothes, Sally told her all about
it--word for word--everything that had passed between them. This is
a way of women. They have a marvellous memory for the recounting in
detai