For he held her so fast that she gasped for breath, and with her head pressed back against his shoulder, he kissed her on the lips, fiercely, violently, hungrily--kissed her eyes, her hair, and again her lips, sealing them closely with his own, making protest impossible. Neither could she resist him, for he held her gathered up against his heart, bearing her whole weight with a strength that mocked her weakness, compelling her to lie at his mercy while the wild storm of his passion swept on its way. She was as one caught in the molten stream of a volcano, and carried by the fiery current that seethed all about her, consuming her with its heat. Once when his lips left hers she tried to whisper his name, to call him back from his madness; but her voice was gone. She could only gasp and gasp till with an odd, half-savage laugh he silenced her again with those burning kisses that made her feel that he had stormed his way to the last and inner sanctuary of her soul, depriving her even of the right to dispute his overwhelming possession. Later it seemed to her that she must have been near to fainting, for though she knew that he bore her inwards from the open door she could not so much as raise a hand in protest. She was utterly spent and almost beyond caring, so complete had been his conquest. When he set her on her feet she tottered, clinging to him nervelessly for support. He kept his arm about her, but his hold was no longer insistent. She was aware of his passion still; it seemed to play around her like a lambent flame; but the first fierce flare was past. He spoke to her at last in a voice that was low but not without the arrogance of the conqueror. "Are you very angry with me, I wonder?" She did not answer him, for still she could not. He went on, a vein of recklessness running through his speech. "It won't make any difference if you are. Do you understand? I've tried to let you go, but I can't. I must have you or die." He paused a moment, and it seemed as if the tornado of his passion were sweeping back again; but, curiously, he checked it. "That's how it is with me, Avery," he said. "The fates have played a ghastly joke on me, but you are mine in spite of it. You came to tell me so; didn't you?" Was there a note of pleading in his voice? She fancied so; but still she could not speak in answer. She leaned against him with every pulse throbbing. She dared not turn her face to his. "Are you afraid of me, Avery?" he said, and this time surely she heard a faint echo of that boyish humour that had first won her. "Because it's all right, dear," he told her softly. "I've got myself in hand now. You know, I couldn't hold you in my arms just then and not--not kiss you. You don't hate me for it, do you? You--understand?"