"That's the way I love you best, My Fool. It shows spirit, and manhood, and good, red blood--red, like our roses!" She plucked from her breast a handful of scarlet petals, casting them above her head. They fell about them both, a glowing shower. She went on: "How for a moment you could have imagined that you love the woman you call wife--a soft, silly, namby-pamby--" He was on his feet now, fierce, primal, brutal--all the manhood that was left of him straight and rigid. "Stop!" he commanded. "Don't you dare say one word against her, or by God, I'll--" She interrupted, rising haughtily before him, and said coldly, incisively: "You forget yourself. You humiliate yourself. You insult me. I'll say what I please of whom I please." "You'll keep your tongue off her, and off the little one!" "I'll not if I choose not!" "You will!" She laughed. He stood for a moment, poised in anger. Then the momentary flash of righteous wrath was gone. He turned, slowly, from her. She remarked, lightly, scornfully: "The man of it, and again the fool of it. You would protect her who has scorned, and flouted, and humiliated you." "The fault was mine," he flashed. "And you know it; and I know it." "Then why did you do it?" He shook his head, eyes again leaden. "God knows," he whispered. She stood for a moment; then again laughter rippled from the red lips. "But why should we quarrel?" she asked, gently. "There are things in life more sweet." She went to him, leaning toward him, beautiful arms extended, lissome body bent. "A kiss, My Fool," she whispered. He turned from her. "No," he cried. She smiled. "I said, 'A kiss, My Fool!'" she repeated. "I heard." Her eyes were on him.... Slowly he turned.... The set jaw relaxed; the straight limned lips weakened.... He looked at her. Her lips now were almost upon his own; her eyes were very close to his. Again she whispered; softly, sibilantly, caressingly: "A kiss, My Fool!" * * * * * He thrust her from him. "You devil!" he cried. "I love you--and I hate you! You are beautiful-- and you're ugly! You are sweeter than the last of life--and more bitter than the sodden shame of a secret sin!" She replied, lightly, arranging the masses of her hair with deft, slender fingers: "All of which is quite as it should be, My Fool; for the hate makes the love but the more poignant; the ugliness is but a fair setting for the beauty; and sweetness in bitterness is far more sweet than sweetness alone." Her mood was different now. He had sunk into the great chair. She seated herself upon its arm; her head sunk to his; her cheek against his.... And again he kissed her, on the lips. [Illustration] CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT. THE BATTLE.