He was indeed momentarily taken aback by this taunt, which no woman in his experience had had the wit and spirit to fling at him, but he was not the type of man to be shocked by it.  On the contrary, it swept away his irritation, and as a revelation of her inner moltenness stirred him to a fever heat as he approached and stood over her.

“You little—­panther!” he whispered.  “You want beautiful things, do you?  Well, I’ll give ’em to you.  I’ll take care of you.”

“Do you think I want them from you?” she retorted, almost in tears.  “Do you think I want anybody to take care of me?  That shows how little you know me.  I want to be independent, to do my work and pay for what I get.”

Janet herself was far from comprehending the complexity of her feelings.  Ditmar had not apologized or feigned an altruism for which she would indeed have despised him.  The ruthlessness of his laugh—­the laugh of the red-blooded man who makes laws that he himself may be lawless shook her with a wild appeal.  “What do I care about any others—­I want you!” such was its message.  And against this paradoxical wish to be conquered, intensified by the magnetic field of his passion, battled her self-assertion, her pride, her innate desire to be free, to escape now from a domination the thought of which filled her with terror.  She felt his cheek brushing against her hair, his fingers straying along her arm; for the moment she was hideously yet deliciously powerless.  Then the emotion of terror conquered—­terror of the unknown—­and she sprang away, dropping her note-book and running to the window, where she stood swaying.

“Janet, you’re killing me,” she heard him say.  “For God’s sake, why can’t you trust me?”

She did not answer, but gazed out at the primrose lights beginning to twinkle fantastically in the distant mills.  Presently she turned.  Ditmar was in his chair.  She crossed the room to the electric switch, turning on the flood of light, picked up her tote-book and sat down again.

“Don’t you intend to answer your letters?” she asked.

He reached out gropingly toward the pile of his correspondence, seized the topmost letter, and began to dictate, savagely.  She experienced a certain exultation, a renewed and pleasurable sense of power as she took down his words.

THE DWELLING-PLACE OF LIGHT

By WINSTON CHURCHILL VOLUME 2

CHAPTER IX

At certain moments during the days that followed the degree of tension her relationship with Ditmar had achieved tested the limits of Janet’s ingenuity and powers of resistance.  Yet the sense of mastery at being able to hold such a man in leash was by no means unpleasurable to a young woman of her vitality and spirit.  There was always the excitement that the leash might break—­and then what?  Here was a situation, she knew instinctively, that