“No!” She had knelt down by his chair and had suddenly taken both his hands in hers, and was kissing them again and again. “No, Jim, we must have to-night. Never mind about the rest. I want you—now. Take me.” Her arms were about him. Her head was on his chest. Her fascination began to steal about him again. His blood began to riot. After all, what were all these casuistries, this talk about the soul? Anyone could talk, it was living that mattered. He began to press her hands; his head was swimming. Then suddenly a curious thing happened. The room seemed to disappear. Mrs. Maradick was sitting on the edge of her bed looking at him. He could see the pathetic bend of her head as she looked at him. He felt once again, as he had felt in Morelli’s room, as though there were devils about him. He was tired again, dog-tired; in a moment he was going to yield. Both women were with him again. Beyond the window was the night, the dark hedges, the white road, the tower, grey and cold with the shadow lying at its feet and moving with the moon as the waves move on the shore. For a moment the fire seized him. He felt nothing but her body—the pressure, the warmth of it. His fingers grated a little on the silk of her dress. There was perfect silence, and he thought that he could hear, beyond the beating of their hearts, the sounds of the night—the rustle of the trees, the monotonous drip of water, the mysterious distant playing of the flute that he had heard before. His hands were crushing her. In another moment he would have bent and covered her face, her body, with kisses; then, like the coming of a breeze after a parching stillness, the time was past. He got up and gently put her hands away. He walked across the room and looked out at the stars, the moon, the light on the misty trees. He had won his victory. His voice was quite quiet when he spoke to her. “You had better, we had both better go to bed. It must never happen, to either of us, because it isn’t good enough. I’m not the sort of man, you’re not the sort of woman, that that does for; you know that you don’t really love me.” She had risen too, and now stood by the door, her head hanging a little, her hands limply by her side. Then she gave a hard little laugh. “I’ve rather given myself away,” she said harshly. “Only, don’t you think it would have been kinder, honester, to have said this a week ago?” “I don’t try to excuse myself,” he said quietly. “I’ve been pretty rotten, but that’s no reason——” He stopped abruptly. She clenched her hands, and then suddenly flung up her head and looked at him across the room furiously. “Good night, Mr. Maradick,” she said, and was gone. CHAPTER XX MARADICK TELLS THE FAMILY, HAS BREAKFAST WITH HIS WIFE, AND SAYS GOOD-BYE TO SOME FRIENDS But he did not sleep.