She felt the rim of a glass against her chattering teeth, and she drank with her head against his arm. The wine was like fire in her veins; the awful numbness passed. “Better?” said Rotherby. “Come, this is rather a terrible fuss to make, isn’t it? Drink a little more!” She drank again, and then, as he released her, bent forward over the table, hiding her face. A great shiver went through her and passed. She sat bowed and silent. After a few seconds he spoke again, his tone quite friendly, but with that hint of mastery which made her realize how completely she was at his mercy. “Sit up and have some supper! You will feel much better for it. Afterwards we will sit by the fire and talk.” She raised herself slowly, propping her chin on her hands. She spoke, haltingly, with difficulty, almost as if it were in a foreign language. “If I give my promise—to—to—to—marry—you, will you—let me—go?” “To-night?” he said. “Yes, to-night.” She did not look at him; she was staring before her at a picture on the opposite wall—a picture of heather-clad moors and running streams—but with eyes that saw not. There was a brief pause, then very suddenly the man behind her moved. He bent and took her head between his hands, compelling her to face him. “Why should I do that?” he said. She met his look, though an irrepressible shudder went through her at his touch. “Because,” she said, in the same slow, uncertain way, “you are a man—and I—am a woman. I am at your mercy—now, but I shall not always be. If you want to—to—hold me by any means—except force—then—you will be merciful. No! Listen! I am at your mercy. I know it. I own it. But—you are not all beast. If you will let me go, I will promise to marry you—as soon as you wish. If you will not let me go, you will have your way to-night. But after to-night—after to-night——” “Well?” he said, awed in spite of himself by her voice, her words, her look, yet half-mocking still. “After to-night?” “After to-night,” she said, and drew herself from his hold, facing him with a gesture of freedom that was even regal, “you will never see me again, because I swear to you—before God—that I shall be dead.” He blenched a little, but in a moment recovered himself. “Pshaw! Words are easy—especially with women. That threat doesn’t move me.” “No.” She got up from her chair with a strange calmness. “It may not—yet. But it will—it will. If you were all beast, you might not care. But you are a man at heart, and so you will never forget it. And you will care—terribly—afterwards.” She turned from him with the words, walked to the settee before the stove, and sat down, holding her hands to the warmth, ignoring his presence utterly.