This time he did not shake her off.  He stood with his eyes on hers and waited.

The man on the other side of the door, evidently concluding that the waiting-room had not been opened that day, gave up the attempt and passed on.  With straining ears Doris listened to his departing footsteps.  A few seconds later she saw Jeff’s eyes go to the farther window.  Her own followed them.  Hugh Chesyl, clad in a long grey ulster, was tramping away through the snow.

He passed from sight, and Doris relaxed her hold.  Her face was white and spent.  “Will you take me home?” she said faintly.

Slowly Jeff’s eyes came back to her, dwelt upon her.  He must have seen the exhaustion in her face, but his own showed no softening.

He spoke at last sternly, with grim mastery.  “If I take you back it must be on a different footing.  You tell me this man is no more to you than a friend.  I am even less.  Do you think I will be satisfied with that?”

“I have tried to make you my friend,” she said.

“And you have failed,” he said.  “Shall I tell you why?  Or can you guess?”

She was silent.

He clenched his hands hard against his sides.  “You know what happened yesterday,” he said.  “It had nearly happened a hundred times before.  I kept it back till it got too strong for me.  You dangled your friendship before me till I was nearly mad with the want of you.  You had better have offered me nothing at all than that.”

“Oh, Jeff!” she said.

He went on, heedless of reproach.  “It has come to this with me:  friendship, if it comes at all, must come after.  You tell me Chesyl is not your lover.  Do you deny that he has ever made love to you?”

“Since he knew of my marriage—­never!” she said.

“Yet you ride home with him in the dark hand in hand!” said Jeff.

The colour flamed in her face and as swiftly died.  “Hugh Chesyl is not my lover,” she said proudly.

“And you expect me to believe you?” he said.

“I do.”

He gazed at her without pity.  “You will secure my belief in you,” he said, “only by coming to me as my wife.”

A great shiver went through her.  She stood silent.

“As my wife,” he repeated looking straight into her face with eyes that compelled.  She was trembling from head to foot.  He waited a moment, then:  “You would sooner run away with Hugh Chesyl?” he asked very bitterly.

Sheer pain drove her into speech.  “Oh, Jeff,” she cried passionately, “don’t make me hate you!”

He started at that as an animal starts at the goad, and in an instant he took her suddenly and fiercely by the shoulders.  “Hate me, then!  Hate me!” he said, and kissed her again savagely on her white, panting lips as he had kissed her the night before, showing no mercy.

She did not resist him.  Her strength was gone.  She hung quivering in his arms till the storm of his passion had passed also.  Then:  “Let us go!” she whispered:  “Let us go!”