“I suspected. . . .  Of course I suspected something of your little goings on.  I am not a child.  But from suspecting to seeing—­ seeing, you understand—­there’s an enormous difference.  That sort of thing. . . .  Come!  One isn’t made of stone.  And when a man has been worried by a girl as I have been worried by you, Miss Freya—­ sleeping and waking, then, of course. . . .  But I am a man of the world.  It must be dull for you here . . .  I say, won’t you leave off this confounded playing . . .?”

This last was the only sentence really which she made out.  She shook her head negatively, and in desperation put on the loud pedal, but she could not make the sound of the piano cover his raised voice.

“Only, I am surprised that you should. . . .  An English trading skipper, a common fellow.  Low, cheeky lot, infesting these islands.  I would make short work of such trash!  While you have here a good friend, a gentleman ready to worship at your feet—­your pretty feet—­an officer, a man of family.  Strange, isn’t it?  But what of that!  You are fit for a prince.”

Freya did not turn her head.  Her face went stiff with horror and indignation.  This adventure was altogether beyond her conception of what was possible.  It was not in her character to jump up and run away.  It seemed to her, too, that if she did move there was no saying what might happen.  Presently her father would be back, and then the other would have to leave off.  It was best to ignore—­to ignore.  She went on playing loudly and correctly, as though she were alone, as if Heemskirk did not exist.  That proceeding irritated him.

“Come!  You may deceive your father,” he bawled angrily, “but I am not to be made a fool of!  Stop this infernal noise . . .  Freya . . . Hey!  You Scandinavian Goddess of Love!  Stop!  Do you hear?  That’s what you are—­of love.  But the heathen gods are only devils in disguise, and that’s what you are, too—­a deep little devil.  Stop it, I say, or I will lift you off that stool!”

Standing behind her, he devoured her with his eyes, from the golden crown of her rigidly motionless head to the heels of her shoes, the line of her shapely shoulders, the curves of her fine figure swaying a little before the keyboard.  She had on a light dress; the sleeves stopped short at the elbows in an edging of lace.  A satin ribbon encircled her waist.  In an access of irresistible, reckless hopefulness he clapped both his hands on that waist—­and then the irritating music stopped at last.  But, quick as she was in springing away from the contact (the round music-stool going over with a crash), Heemskirk’s lips, aiming at her neck, landed a hungry, smacking kiss just under her ear.  A deep silence reigned for a time.  And then he laughed rather feebly.

He was disconcerted somewhat by her white, still face, the big light violet eyes resting on him stonily.  She had not uttered a sound.  She faced him, steadying herself on the corner of the piano with one extended hand.  The other went on rubbing with mechanical persistency the place his lips had touched.