“No, I won’t,” he replied determinedly.  “Even though you do hate me, you’re still my wife—­you belong to me—­”

She stared at him in amazement.

“Robert!  What do you mean?” she cried.

Shrugging his shoulders contemptuously, he exclaimed: 

“Who were you till I married you—­nobody!  What were you?  A telephone girl getting ten dollars a week.  And now who are you?  You’re Mrs. Robert Stafford!  And what are you?  You’re the wife of one of the richest men in the country.  And how did he get you for his wife?  He bought you and he paid for you.”

“You didn’t!” she almost screamed, her face white with anger, her whole being trembling with nervous excitement.

“Oh, yes, I did,” he went on coldly.  “Did you love me when you married me?  No.  Would you have married me if I’d been poor?  No!  I bought you and I paid for you and anything I’ve bought and paid for belongs to me.  And now will you kiss me?”

“No,” she cried in desperation, her head thrown back, her hands clenched.  “I will not!”

He advanced threateningly.

“Then if you won’t, I’ll—­”

He stopped abruptly and his manner changed.  Shrugging his shoulders, he exclaimed: 

“Oh, what’s the use of quarreling?  I don’t want to be mean to you.  I want to be nice to you.”

Tears were in her eyes, her lips were trembling.  Pathetically she asked: 

“Then why do you insult me?  Why do you wish to degrade me?”

“Degrade you?” he echoed, as if surprised.  “Why—­you’re my wife—­”

“Does that make the degradation any the less?” she demanded.  “When I married you did I become your property?  Do you own me?  Have I surrendered all rights in myself?  When you placed a wedding ring on my finger did it mean that I forfeited my free will?  If so—­then marriage is horrible.”

He shrugged his shoulders.  Carelessly he said: 

“The law says that a husband—­”

“The law!  The law!” she echoed disdainfully.  “Always remember this—­the minute a husband even mentions his legal rights it shows that he has lost his moral rights and the moral rights are the ones that count.”  Changing her tone to one of pleading, she went on:  “Let me go, dear!  Please let me go!”

He smiled significantly at her.

“You just be a nice, good little wife, and in the morning you can go down to Tiffany’s and buy anything you like, anything—­”

“Ha! ha!” she cried desperately, hopelessly, “no wonder you talk of buying me!  If I did that where would I be any better than a woman of the streets?”

Without stopping to hear his answer she turned quickly and again made an effort to reach her room.

“Good night!” she cried.

But once more he intercepted her.

“You’re not going to leave me,” he said warningly.

“I am, I tell you!  I am!” she cried defiantly.