Eustace’s grim lips twitched a little.  “Why indeed?  Well, it’s lucky for him he hasn’t.  If he had, I’d have half killed him for it!”

There was concentrated savagery in his tone.  His eyes shone with a fire that made her shrink.  And then very suddenly he put his hand upon her shoulder.

“Do you mean to tell me that you want to throw me over solely because you imagine you care for a man who doesn’t care for you?” he asked.

She looked up at him piteously, “Oh, please don’t ask me any more!” she said.

“But I want to know,” he said stubbornly.  “Is that your only reason?”

With difficulty she answered him.  “No.”

“Then what more?” he demanded.

It was inevitable.  She made a desperate effort to be brave.  “I couldn’t be happy with you.  I am afraid of you.  And—­and—­you are not kind to—­to Isabel.”

“Who says I am not kind to Isabel?” His hand pressed upon her ominously; his look was implacably stern.

But the effort to be brave had given her strength.  She stiffened in his hold.  “I know it,” she said.  “I have seen it.  She is always miserable when you are there.”

He frowned upon her heavily.  “You don’t understand.  Isabel is very hysterical.  She needs a firm hand.”

“You are more than firm,” Dinah said.  “You are—­cruel.”

Never in her wildest moments had she imagined herself making such an indictment.  She marvelled at herself even as it left her lips.  But something seemed to have entered into her, taking away her fear.  Not till long afterwards did she realize that it was her new-found womanhood that had come upon her all unawares during that poignant interview.

She faced him without a tremor as she uttered the words, and he received them in a silence so absolute that she went on with scarcely a pause.  “Not only to Isabel, but to everyone; to Scott, to that poor poacher, to me.  You don’t believe it, because it is your nature.  But it is true all the same.  And I think cruelty is a most dreadful thing.  It’s a vice that not all the virtues put together could counter-balance.”

“When have I been cruel to you?” he said.

His tone was quiet, his face mask-like; but she thought that fury raged behind his calm.  And still she knew no fear, felt no faintest dread of consequence.

“All your love-making has been cruel,” she said.  “Only once—­no, twice now—­have you been the least bit kind to me.  It’s no good talking.  You’d never understand.  I’ve lain awake often in the night with the dread of you.  But”—­her voice shook slightly—­“I didn’t know what I wanted, so I kept on.  Now that I do know—­though I shall never have it—­it’s made a difference, and I can’t go on.  You don’t want me any more now I’ve told you, so it won’t hurt you so very badly to let me go.”

“You are wrong,” he said, and suddenly she knew that out of his silence or her speech had developed something that was strange and new.  His voice was quick and low, utterly devoid of its customary arrogance.  “I want you more than ever!  Dinah—­Dinah, I may have been a brute to you.  You’re right.  I often am a brute.  But marry me—­only marry me—­and I swear to you that I will be kind!”