"Oh, it is? We'll see!" She snatched at the bottle, still more than half full. The thin hand of Nicholas Devine wrenched it violently away. "Give me that!" she cried. "You wanted what you're getting!" The warmth within her had reached the surface now; she felt flushed, excited, reckless, and desperately angry. The other set the bottle deliberately on the floor; he rose, circled the table, and stood glaring down at her with that same inexplicable expression. Suddenly he raised his hand; twisting her black hair in his fist, he dealt her a stinging blow across the lips half-opened to scream, then flung her away so violently that she nearly sprawled from her chair. The scream died in her throat; dazed by the blow, she dropped her head to the table, while sobs of pain and fear shook her. Coherent thought had departed, and she knew only that her lips stung, that her clear, active little mind was caught in a mesh of befuddlement. She couldn't think; she could only sob in the haze of dizziness that encompassed her. After a long interval, she raised her head, opened her eyes upon a swaying, unsteady world, and faced her companion, who had silently resumed his seat. "Nicholas Devine," she said slowly, speaking as if each word were an effort, "I hate you!" "Ah!" he said and was again silent. She forced her eyes to focus on his face, while his features danced vaguely as if smoke flowed between the two of them. It was as if there were smoke in her mind as well; she made a great effort to rise above the clouds that bemused her thoughts. "Take me home," she said. "Nicholas, I want to go home." "Why should I?" he asked impassively. "The experiment is hardly begun." "Experiment?" she echoed dully. "Oh, yes--experiment. I'm an experiment." "An experiment in evil," he said. "Yes--in evil. And I hate you! That's evil enough, isn't it?" He reached down, lifted the bottle to the table, and methodically poured himself a drink of the liquor. He raised it, watching the oily swirls in the light, then tipped the fluid to his lips while the girl gazed at him with a sullen set to her own lips. A tiny crimson spot had appeared in the corner of her mouth; at its sting, she raised her hand and brushed it away. She stared as if in unbelief at the small red smear it left on her fingers. "Nicholas," she said pleadingly, "won't you take me home? Please, Nicholas, I want to leave here." "Do you hate me?" he asked, a queer twisting smile appearing on his lips. "If you'll take me home I won't," said Pat, snatching through the rising clouds of dizziness at a straw of logic. "You're going to take me home, aren't you?" "Let me hear you say you hate me!" he demanded, rising again. The girl cringed away with a little whimper as he approached. "You hate me, don't you?" He twisted his hand again in her ebony hair, drawing her face back so that he stared down at it. "There's blood on your lips," he said as if gloating. "Blood on your lips!"