Paul’s emotions were in such chaotic rebellion that the thunder of his heart-beats mingled with the pulse hammering through his brain and made him for the first time in his life curiously deaf to his own thoughts.

As she met his eye, expressing more than he realized of the storm within, her own fell with a sudden sense of apprehension.  She rose and looked far out over the restless waves with a sudden flush on her dimpled cheek, a subtle excitement in her rapid words.

“As for our men, Paul, they are only human beings, but mighty with that strength of physique and perfect development of mind that makes for power.  They are men of dauntless purpose.  They are men of pure thoughts and lofty ideals.  They know what they want and bend every ambition and energy to its attainment.  Of course I speak of the average American—­the type!  The normal American is a born fighter.  Yes, that is the key-note of American supremacy!  We never give up! never!  In my country, what men want, they get!”

She raised her hand in a quaint, expressive gesture, and the loose sleeve fell back, leaving her white arm bare.  He sprang to his feet, his eyes glowing.

“And in my country, what men want, they take!” he responded fiercely—­almost brutally and without a second’s warning Paul threw his arms about her and crushed her against his breast.  He pressed his lips mercilessly upon her own, holding them in a kiss that seemed to Opal would never end.

“How—­how dare you!” she gasped, when at last she escaped his grasp and faced him in the fury of outraged girlhood.  “I—­I—­hate you!”

“Dare?  When one loves one dares anything!” was his husky response.  “I shall have had my kiss and you can never forget that!  Never! never!”

And Paul’s voice grew exultant.

Opal had heard of the brutality, the barbarism of passion, but her life had flowed along conventional channels as peacefully as a quiet river.  She had longed to believe in the fury of love—­in that irresistible attraction between men and women.  It appealed to her as it naturally appeals to all women who are alive with the intensity of life.  But she had seen nothing of it.

Now she looked living Passion in the face for the first time, and was appalled—­half frightened, half fascinated—­by the revelation.  That kiss seemed to scorch her lips with a fire she had never dreamed of.  With the universal instinct of shamed womanhood, she pressed her handkerchief to her lips, rubbing fiercely at the soiled spot.  He divined her thought and laughed, with a note of exultation that stirred her Southern blood.

In defiance she raised her eyes and searched his face, seeking some solution of the mystery of her own heart’s strange, rebellious throbbing.  What could it mean?

Paul took another step toward her, his face softening to tenderness.

“What is it, Opal?” he breathed.