She gasped. It would have been a relief if she could have fainted. All she could do was to thrust the last pin into her hat and go to the door and open it. Hubert stood aghast. "Well, by all the holy cats—!" "I’m not well, Mr. Wray," she pleaded, with sudden inspiration. "Ah, go on, Jennie! You were well enough twenty minutes ago." "Yes; but since then I’ve been feeling chilled." He strode into the dressing-room, which he was not supposed to do. "Chilled—hell! Why, this hole’s as hot as blazes." "It isn’t that. I think it’s a germ-cold I’m taking." "See here, Jennie," he said, sternly. "You’re going to funk it. All right! It doesn’t make much difference to me. The other girl—it’s Emma Brasshead—you know!—she was the middle one in Sims’s three nudes—perfectly stunning hips—" "I’ll be here to-morrow—right on the dot." He wheeled away as far as the space of the dressing-room would permit. "Oh, well, Jennie, I don’t know that it would be of much use, after all. Emma’s the type, you see. You’d be too—" "You can’t tell that till—till you’ve tried me out." "I can try you out right through your clothes. What’s a man a painter for?" "If you can do that, why did you want me to—" He turned sharply. "Jennie, you’re not straight with me." "Oh, but I am! I’m as straight with you as—as you are with me. But I can’t help being sick." "You can’t help being Jennie," he muttered, brokenly, "the girl I worship and who worships me. Jennie! Jennie! Jennie!" "Oh, don’t, Hubert; don’t!" she begged. "To-morrow! I’ll come to-morrow, and then—" But he smothered these protests. "You wildcat! You adorable tigress!" "Yes, Hubert—but to-morrow—" "No, no!" His kisses, his brutalities, were agony to her, and yet they were bliss. She didn’t know why she fought them off, or what instinct led her to defend herself, or how she found herself out on the stairs. She went down slowly. She was not angry; she was only excited and a little amused. Sex fury was less romantic than she had supposed; but as an exhibition of the human being at his most animal, it was "some curtain raiser." If she had to go through it again.... But as she jogged toward the ferry in the street car, this mood passed off. She grew sick with a sense of failure. Love and twenty-five thousand dollars were at stake, and she had funked the game. She was not a sport; she wondered if she were a woman. If she couldn’t play up better than this, she would have Bob back on her hands again and be shamed forever before Mrs. Collingham, who had been so good to her. Moreover, if she continued to play fast and loose with Wray he would certainly return to Miss Brasshead. She dreaded reaching the ferry and having to go on the boat. The river was now haunted by Bob, like the sea by a phantom ship. While crossing, she sat with her eyes closed so as to shut out this memory by not looking at the water.