Trenor caught her up with a sneer. “I don’t doubt you’ve accepted as much before—and chucked the other chaps as you’d like to chuck me. I don’t care how you settled your score with them—if you fooled ’em I’m that much to the good. Don’t stare at me like that—I know I’m not talking the way a man is supposed to talk to a girl—but, hang it, if you don’t like it you can stop me quick enough—you know I’m mad about you—damn the money, there’s plenty more of it—if THAT bothers you.... I was a brute, Lily—Lily!—just look at me——” Over and over her the sea of humiliation broke—wave crashing on wave so close that the moral shame was one with the physical dread. It seemed to her that self-esteem would have made her invulnerable—that it was her own dishonour which put a fearful solitude about her. His touch was a shock to her drowning consciousness. She drew back from him with a desperate assumption of scorn. “I’ve told you I don’t understand—but if I owe you money you shall be paid——” Trenor’s face darkened to rage: her recoil of abhorrence had called out the primitive man. “Ah—you’ll borrow from Selden or Rosedale—and take your chances of fooling them as you’ve fooled me! Unless—unless you’ve settled your other scores already—and I’m the only one left out in the cold!” She stood silent, frozen to her place. The words—the words were worse than the touch! Her heart was beating all over her body—in her throat, her limbs, her helpless useless hands. Her eyes travelled despairingly about the room—they lit on the bell, and she remembered that help was in call. Yes, but scandal with it—a hideous mustering of tongues. No, she must fight her way out alone. It was enough that the servants knew her to be in the house with Trenor—there must be nothing to excite conjecture in her way of leaving it. She raised her head, and achieved a last clear look at him. “I am here alone with you,” she said. “What more have you to say?” To her surprise, Trenor answered the look with a speechless stare. With his last gust of words the flame had died out, leaving him chill and humbled. It was as though a cold air had dispersed the fumes of his libations, and the situation loomed before him black and naked as the ruins of a fire. Old habits, old restraints, the hand of inherited order, plucked back the bewildered mind which passion had jolted from its ruts. Trenor’s eye had the haggard look of the sleep-walker waked on a deathly ledge. “Go home! Go away from here”——he stammered, and turning his back on her walked toward the hearth.