She obeyed, positively inert with surprise.

“Do you think I keep you at this detestable business because I want the money?” he asked.  “Dear Heaven!  Ruth, is that what you think of me?” Fortunately, before she could answer, he went on:  “No, no, no!  I have wanted to make you a free and independent being, my dear, and that is why I have put you through the most dangerous and exacting school in the world.  You understand?”

“I think I do,” she replied falteringly.

“But not entirely.  Let me pour you some tea?  No?”

He sighed, as he blew forth the smoke of a cigarette.  “But you don’t understand entirely,” he continued, “and you must.  Go back to the old days, when you knew nothing of the world but me.  Can you remember?”

“Yes, yes!”

“Then you certainly recall a time when, if I had simply given directions, you would have been mine, Ruth.  I could have married you the moment you became a woman.  Is that true?” “Yes,” she whispered, “that is perfectly true.”  The coldness that passed over her taught her for the first time how truly she dreaded that marriage which had been postponed, but which inevitably hung over her head.

“But I didn’t want such a wife,” continued John Mark.  “You would have been an undeveloped child, really; you would never have grown up.  No matter what they say, something about a woman is cut off at the root when she marries.  Certainly, if she had not been free before, she is a slave if she marries a man with a strong will.  And I have a strong will, Ruth—­very strong!”

“Very strong, John,” she whispered again.  He smiled faintly, as if there were less of what he wanted in that second use of the name.  He went on:  “So you see, I faced a problem.  I must and would marry you.  There was never any other woman born who was meant for me.  So much so good.  But, if I married you before you were wise enough to know me, you would have become a slave, shrinking from me, yielding to me, incapable of loving me.  No, I wanted a free and independent creature as my wife; I wanted a partnership, you see.  Put you into the world, then, and let you see men and women?  No, I could not do that in the ordinary way.  I have had to show you the hard and bad side of life, because I am, in many ways, a hard and bad man myself!”

He said it, almost literally, through his teeth.  His face was fierce, defying her—­his eyes were wistful, entreating her not to agree with him.  Such a sudden rush of pity for the man swept over her that she put out her hand and pressed his.  He looked down at her hand for a moment, and she felt his fingers trembling under that gentle pressure.

“I understand more now,” she said slowly, “than I have ever understood before.  But I’ll never understand entirely.”

“A thing that’s understood entirely is despised,” he said, with a careless sweep of his hand.  “A thing that is understood is not feared.  I wish to be feared, not to make people cower, but to make them know when I come, and when I go.  Even love is nothing without a seasoning of fear.  For instance”—­he flushed as the torrent of his speech swept him into a committal of himself—­“I am afraid of you, dear girl.  Do you know what I have done with the money you’ve won?”