John again sprang to his feet, and again he sat down beside the girl.  He had so recently received forgiveness for his own sins that he dared not be unforgiving toward Dorothy.  He did not speak, and she remained silent, willing to allow time for the situation to take its full effect.  The wisdom of the serpent is black ignorance compared with the cunning of a girl in Dorothy’s situation.  God gives her wit for the occasion as He gives the cat soft paws, sharp claws, and nimbleness.  She was teaching John a lesson he would never forget.  She was binding him to her with hoops of steel.

“I know that I have not the right to ask,” said John, suppressing his emotions, “but may I know merely as a matter of trivial information—­may I know the name of—­of the person—­this fellow with whom you have had so full an experience?  God curse him!  Tell me his name.”  He caught the girl violently by both arms as if he would shake the truth out of her.  He was unconsciously making full amends for the faults he had committed earlier in the evening.  The girl made no answer.  John’s powers of self-restraint, which were not of the strongest order, were exhausted, and he again sprang to his feet and stood towering before her in a passion.  “Tell me his name,” he said hoarsely.  “I demand it.  I will not rest till I kill him.”

“If you would kill him, I surely will not tell you his name.  In truth, I admit I am very fond of him.”

“Speak not another word to me till you tell me his name,” stormed John.  I feel sorry for John when I think of the part he played in this interview; but every man knows well his condition.

“I care not,” continued John, “in what manner I have offended you, nor does my debt of gratitude to you for your generosity in forgiving my sins weigh one scruple against this you have told me.  No man, unless he were a poor clown, would endure it; and I tell you now, with all my love for you, I will not—­I will not!”

Dorothy was beginning to fear him.  She of course did not fear personal violence; but after all, while he was slower than she, he was much stronger every way, and when aroused, his strength imposed itself upon her and she feared to play him any farther.

“Sit beside me, John, and I will tell you his name,” said the girl, looking up to him, and then casting down her eyes.  A dimpling smile was playing about her lips.

“No, I will not sit by you,” replied John, angrily.  She partly rose, and taking him by the arm drew him to her side.

“Tell me his name,” again demanded John, sitting rigidly by Dorothy.  “Tell me his name.”

“Will you kill him?” she asked.

“That I will,” he answered.  “Of that you may rest assured.”

“If you kill him, John, it will break my heart; for to do so, you must commit suicide.  There is no other man but you, John.  With you I had my first, last, and only experience.”