She shut herself within herself like a flower folding away its beauty and leaving exposed only the underside of its petals.  It was impossible to say whether she understood or was merely obeying an instinct.

He watched her a moment in silence.  Then he said: 

“I am mad about you—­mad.  You must understand.  I can think only of you.  I am insane with jealousy of you.  I want you—­I must have you.”

He would have seized her in his arms, but the look of sheer amazement she gave him protected her where no protest or struggle would.  “You?” she said.  “Did you really mean it?  I thought you were just talking.”

“Can’t you see that I mean it?”

“Yes—­you look as if you did.  But I can’t believe it.  I could never think of you in that way.”

Once more that frank statement of indifference infuriated him.  He must compel her to feel—­he must give that indifference the lie—­and at once!  He caught her in his arms.  He rained kisses upon her pale face.  She made not the least resistance, but seemed dazed.  “I will teach you to love me,” he cried, drunk now with the wine of her lips, with the perfume of her exquisite youth.  “I will make you happy.  We shall be mad with happiness.”

She gently freed herself.  “I don’t believe I could ever think of you in that way.”

“Yes, darling—­you will.  You can’t help loving where you are loved so utterly.”

She gazed at him wonderingly—­the puzzled wonder of a child.  “You—­love—­me?” she said slowly.

“Call it what you like.  I am mad about you.  I have forgotten everything—­pride—­position—­things you can’t imagine—­and I care for nothing but you.”

And again he was kissing her with the soft fury of fire; and again she was submitting with the passive, dazed expression that seemed to add to his passion.  To make her feel!  To make her respond!  He, whom so many women had loved—­women of position, of fame for beauty, of social distinction or distinction as singers, players—­women of society and women of talent all kinds of worth-while women—­they had cared, had run after him, had given freely all he had asked and more.  And this girl—­nobody at all—­she had nothing for him.

He held her away from him, cried angrily:  “What is the matter with you?  What is the matter with me?”

“I don’t understand,” she said.  “I wish you wouldn’t kiss me so much.”

He released her, laughed satirically.  “Oh—­you are playing a game.  I might have known.”

“I don’t understand,” said she.  “A while ago you said you loved me.  Now you act as if you didn’t like me at all.”  And she smiled gayly at him, pouting her lips a little.  Once more her beauty was shining.  It made his nerves quiver to see the color in her pure white skin where he had kissed her.

“I don’t care whether it is a game or not,” he cried.  And he was about to seize her again, when she repulsed him.  He crushed her resistance, held her tight in his arms.