“With us it is not so,” he said.  “We have dignity in our rejoicing, and delicacy in our love.  The bride is brought in state to the home of her husband, no eyes in the street resting upon her, and there, in his home, her husband welcomes her and retires with his friends, while she holds a reception with hers.  Later the husband will come home and greet her, and he wooes her to him as tenderly as he would gather a flower that he would wear.  He is no rude master, no tyrant, as you have been taught to think!  He wins her heart and mind to him; it is the conquest of the spirit!...  I tell you that our men alone understand the secret of women!  Is not the life he gives her better than what you call the world?  The woman blooms like a flower for her husband alone; his eyes only may dwell upon the beauty of her face; for him alone, her lips—­her lips——­”

The young man’s voice, grown husky, died away.  A dreadful stillness followed, a stillness vibrating with unspoken thought.  Her eyes lifted toward him, then fled away, so full of strange, dark, desirous things was the look she encountered.  Abruptly he rose—­he was coming toward her, and she struggled suddenly to her feet, battling against the cold terror which held her dumb and unready.  She flung one arm out before her and found it grasped by hands that were hot and burning.  The touch shot her with a fierce rage that cleared her brain and unlocked her lips.

“Is that—­the conquest of the spirit?” she gasped, and for an instant the white-hot scorn in her eyes, flashing into his, hid any hint of the fear in her.

Involuntarily his grasp relaxed, and violently she wrenched her arm away and stood facing him, a little white-clad image of war, her eyes blazing, her breast heaving, a defiant child in her intrepidity who gave him back look for look.

In his eyes there glowed and battled a conflict of desires.  For one moment they seemed flaming at her from the dark, like some wild creature ready to spring; the next moment they were human, recognizable.  She read there grudging admiration, arrested ardor, irresolution, dubiety, and secret calculation.

Then he put both hands behind him and bowed with ceremony.

“The spirit,” he remarked dryly, “is worth the conquest.”

She said proudly, “You would not like your English friends to know how you treat a guest!”

At that she saw his lip curl in irony—­at the mention of the English, perhaps, or in disdain at the appearance of fearing a threat, however powerful that threat might be.  He answered with calmness, “It is not the English I am considering....  Nor have I treated my guest so ill, chere petite mademoiselle....  If for the moment I mistook my cue—­that look within your face—­I ask grace for my stupidity.”

Suddenly she was frightened.  He did not look like a man who wholly surrenders his desires.  His eyes seemed to say to her, “Wait—­the last word has not been spoken!” She felt her knees trembling.