It was useless to struggle.  She hung nervelessly in his straining arms, mute and helpless to withstand him, while his passion swept over her like a tidal wave, submerging her utterly.

When at last he set her free she swayed unsteadily, catching at the table for support.  Her knees seemed to be giving way under her.  She was voiceless, breathless from his violence.  The tide had receded, leaving her utterly spent and exhausted.

He regarded her in silence for a moment.

“I don’t think you’ll ask me to release you from your engagement again,” he said slowly.

“No,” she whispered tonelessly.  “No.”

She tottered almost as though she were going to fall.  With a sort of rough kindliness he put out his hand to steady her, but she shrank from him like a beaten child.

“Don’t do that!” he exclaimed unevenly.  Adding:  “I’ve frightened you, I suppose?”

She bent her head.

“Well”—­sulkily—­“it was your own fault.  You roused the wild beast in me.”  Then, with a queer, half-shamed laugh, he added:  “There’s Spanish blood in the Trenbys, you know—­as there is in many of the Cornish folk.”

Nan supposed this avowal was intended as an apology, or at least as an explanation of sorts.  It was rather appealing in its boyish clumsiness, but she felt too numb, too utterly weary, to respond to it.

“You’re tired,” he said abruptly.  “You’d better go to bed.”  He put a hand beneath her arm, but she shrank away from him with a fresh spasm of terror.

“Don’t be afraid.  I’m not going to kiss you again.”  He spoke reassuringly.  “Come, let me help you.  You can hardly stand.”

Once more he took her arm, and, too stunned to offer any resistance, she allowed him to lead her from the room.

“Will you be all right, now?” he asked anxiously, as they paused at the foot of the staircase.

She gripped the banister.

“Yes,” she answered mechanically.  “I shall be all right.”

He remained at the bottom of the stairs, watching until her slight figure had disappeared round the bend of the stairway.

CHAPTER XXIII

A QUESTION OF HONOUR

“Your Great-aunt Rachel is dead, Roger.”

Lady Gertrude made this announcement the following morning at breakfast.  In her hand she held the letter which contained the news—­written in an old-fashioned, sloping style of penmanship on thin, heavily black-bordered note-paper.  No one made any reply unless a sympathetic murmur from Isobel could be construed as such.

“Cousin Emily writes that the funeral is to take place next Thursday,” pursued Lady Gertrude, referring to the letter she held.  “We shall have to attend it, of course.”

“Must we?” asked Roger, with obvious lack of enthusiasm.  “I haven’t seen her for at least five years.”