Jasper put a hand on either of her shoulders and bent his head before her. "My poor child--if I'd only left you in your kitchen!" Joan tightened her lips, then smiled uncertainly. "You've got me scared," she said, stepped back and sat down, her hands in her muff. "What is it?" she asked; and in that moment of waiting she was sickly reminded of other moments in her life--of the nearing sound of Pierre's webs on a crystal winter night, of the sound of Prosper's footsteps going away from her up the mountain trail on a swordlike, autumn morning. Jasper began his pacing. Feeling carefully for delicate phrases, he told her Betty's accusation, of her purpose. Joan took off her hat, pushed back the hair from her forehead; then, as he came to the end, she looked up at him. Her pupils were larger than usual and the light, frosty tint of rose had left her cheeks. "Would you mind telling me that again?" she asked. He did so, more explicitly. "She thinks, Betty thinks, that I have been--that we have been--? She thinks that of me? No wonder she hasn't been coming to see me!" She stopped, staring blindly at him; then, "You must tell her it isn't true," she said pitifully, and the quiver of her lips hurt him. "Ah! But she doesn't want to believe that, my dear. She wants to believe the worst. It is her opportunity to escape me." "Haven't you loved her? Have you hurt her?" asked Joan. "God knows I have loved her. I have never hurt her--consciously. Even she cannot think that I have." "Why must she blame me? Why do I have to be brought into this, Mr. Morena? Can't she go away from you? Why do the lawyers have to take it up? You are unhappy, and I am so sorry. But you wouldn't want her to stay if--if she doesn't love you?" "I want her. I mean to keep her or--break her." He turned his back to say this and went toward the window. Joan, fascinated, watched his fingers working into one another, tightening, crushing. "It's another man she wants," he said hoarsely, "and if I can prevent it, she shall not have him. I will force her to keep her vows to me--force her. If it kills her, I'll break this passion, this fancy. I'll have her back--" He wheeled round, showing a twitching face. "I'll prove her infidelity whether she's been unfaithful or not, and then I'll take her back, after the world has given her one of its names--" "You don't love her," said Joan, very white. "You want to brand her." "By God!" swore the Jew, "and I will brand her. I'll brand her." He fumbled in his pocket and brought out the small envelope Woodward Kane had handed to him the day before. He stood turning the letter about in his hands as though some such meaningless occupation was a necessity to him. Joan's eyes, falling upon the letter, widened and fixed.