“Good-night, Billikins,” she said, her voice very small and humble.

He came to her without haste, realizing that she had given the game into his hands.  She did not shrink from him, but she raised an appealing face.  And oddly the man’s heart smote him.  She looked so pathetically small and childish standing there.

But the blood was still running fiercely in his veins, and that momentary twinge did not cool him.  Child she might be, but she had played with fire, and she alone was responsible for the conflagration that she had started.

He drew near to her; he took her, unresisting, into his arms.

She cowered down, hiding her face away from him.  “Don’t, Billikins!  Please—­please, Billikins!” she begged, incoherently.  “You promised—­you promised—­”

“What did I promise?” he said.

“That you wouldn’t—­wouldn’t”—­she spoke breathlessly, for his hold was tightening upon her—­“gobble me up,” she ended, with a painful little laugh.

“I see.”  Merryon’s voice was deep and low.  “And you meantime are at liberty to play any fool game you like with me.  Is that it?”

She was quivering from head to foot.  She did not lift her face.  “It wasn’t—­a fool game,” she protested.  “I did it because—­because—­you were so horrid this morning, so—­so cold-blooded.  And I—­and I—­wanted to see if—­I could make you care.”

“Make me care!” Merryon said the words over oddly to himself; and then, still fast holding her, he began to feel for the face that was so strenuously hidden from him.

She resisted him desperately.  “Let me go!” she begged, piteously.  “I’ll be so good, Billikins.  I’ll go to the Hills.  I’ll do anything you like.  Only let me go now!  Billikins!”

She cried out sharply, for he had overcome her resistance by quiet force, had turned her white face up to his own.

“I am not cold-blooded to-night, Puck,” he said.  “Whatever you are—­child or woman—­gutter-snipe or angel—­you are mine, all mine.  And—­I want you!”

The deep note vibrated in his voice; he stooped over her.

But she flung herself back over his arm, striving desperately to avoid him.  “No—­no—­no!” she cried, wildly.  “You mustn’t, Billikins!  Don’t kiss me!  Don’t kiss me!”

She threw up a desperate hand, covering his mouth.  “Don’t—­oh, don’t!” she entreated, brokenly.

But the fire she had kindled she was powerless to quench.  He would not be frustrated.  He caught her hand away.  He held her to his heart.  He kissed the red lips hotly, with the savage freedom of a nature long restrained.

“Who has a greater right?” he said, with fiery exultation.

She did not answer him.  But at the first touch of his lips upon her own she resisted no longer, only broke into agonized tears.

And suddenly Merryon came to himself—­was furiously, overwhelmingly ashamed.

“God forgive me!” he said, and let her go.