Dulac was drawn to Ruth.

This time she did not try to close the door against him.  His first words made that impossible.

“I’m—­beaten,” he said, dully.

His flamboyance, his threatricality, was gone.  He was no longer flashily masterful, no longer exotically fascinating.  He sagged. ...  He was just a soul-weary, disappointed man, looking at her out of hollow, burning eyes.  He had spent himself magnificently into bankruptcy.  His face was the face of a man who must rest, who must find peace. ...  Yet he was not consciously seeking rest or peace.  He was seeking her. ...  Seeking her because he craved her, and seeking her to strike at her husband, who had become a symbol of all the antagonists he had been fighting.

His appearance disarmed her; her fear of him and herself was lured away by the appearance of him.  She felt nothing but sympathy and tenderness and something of wonder that he—­Dulac the magnificent—­ should be brought to this pass.  So she admitted him, regardless even of the lateness of the afternoon hour.

He followed her heavily and sank into a chair.

“You’re sick,” she said, anxiously.

He shook his head.  “I’m—­beaten,” he repeated, and in truth beaten was what he looked, beaten and crushed. ...  “But I’ll—­try again,” he said, with a trace of the old gleam in his eyes.

She clasped and unclasped her hands, standing before him, white with the emotions that swayed her. ...  Here was the man she loved in his bitterest, darkest moment—­and she was barred away from him by unwelcome barriers.  She could not soothe him, she could not lighten his suffering with the tale of her love for him, but she must remain mute, holding out no hand to ease his pain.

“I came for you,” he said, dully.

“No,” she said.

“Ruth—­I need you—­now. ...”  This man, who had wooed her boldly, had demanded her masterfully, now was brought to pleading.  He needed her.  It was plain that he did need her, and, realizing it, she saw the danger of it.  It was a new, a subtle attack, and it had taken her unawares.

“I can’t. ...  I can’t. ...  I mustn’t...” she said, breathlessly.

“I must have you,” he said, with dead simplicity, as one states a bare, essential fact.  Then Bonbright was visualized before him, and rage flooded once more.  “He sha’n’t keep you!...  You’re mine—­you were mine first. ...  What is he to you?  I’m going to take you away from him. ...  I can do that. ...”

He was less dangerous so.  Perhaps instinct told him, for his passion stilled itself, and he became tired, pitiful again.

“We’ve got a right to be happy,” he said, in his tired voice.  “You’re not happy—­and I’m—­beaten. ...  I want you—­I need you. ...  You’ll come with me.  You’ve got to come with me.”