She tried to take away her hand, but he held it fiercely, bent fiercely toward her. "I don't love you," he said, breathlessly. "It's something more than that.... I can't tell you what it is, how it feels.... I've got to have you. I don't care what has happened. I don't care about anything.... You must marry me. Nothing matters but that." She was white, felt as if she were stifling. "Let go," she said, piteously. "Do you love me?" he demanded. "I-- No!... No!... Stop the car and let me out! Oh, leave me alone! You're torturing me!" He was flaming. His restraint was gone and he was but the starving lover fighting a battle to the death for his love. "Nothing matters," he repeated. "I don't care.... Do you love me?" He drew her closer, careless what eyes might peer through the windows of the limousine. His arm was about her shoulders, her lithe body was strained against his body, and his face was close to hers. She closed her eyes. She did not feel faint, but deliciously helpless. She did not care.... This was the thing she had been waiting for, crying for ... this thing that was forbidden to her. She did not struggle. He kissed her lips again and again, muttering incoherently. She returned his kisses.... Presently she tried to release herself. "We're in the--street," she panted. "People can see." "Let them see." It was his old recklessness. "What do we care?... Tell me now. You love me? I want to hear you say it. Say it." "I love you," she said, softly. "And you'll marry me? Say that." She pushed him away and the life and youth died out of her eyes. Instead of Potter by her side she saw her father; saw him convicted of treason, a thing to be spat upon and reviled.... Her father!... This moment had been sweet--but other moments were impossible, a life of them was hideously impossible. Hers was a blood and heritage she could take to no man. No man's life should mingle with her life to produce a child who should call his grandfather traitor. "No!..." she cried, wildly. "You mustn't ask. I can marry no man. I can never marry." "Hildegarde," he said, his voice tense, vibrant, "listen. I don't care. You--told me before.... It doesn't matter. It's as if nothing had ever happened.... I want you." "I can't marry you," she said. She clenched herself in a vise-grip of determination, became calmer. She must, she knew, convince Potter of her determination; must convince him that nothing could change her. "Potter, I'd die before I would marry you. You must believe me. It cannot be.... You're cruel to ask me.... Please, oh, please!" "Hildegarde!" She shook her head. "Nothing can change me. See. Look into my eyes if you think you can make me change." He looked into her eyes long, beseechingly, then turned away his face. He had seen. Her will was glowing there, unconquerable. He was answered, answered finally. Minutes after he turned to her again. "I saw," he said. "But will you tell me this?... I've got to know. Who was it? Was Cantor--"