"How did you know?" she said, with a surprised look; then added listlessly, "Yes; I've done with David. I hate him." She looked blankly down at her muff, and began to stroke the fur. It occurred to her that before going to Willis's she must see Nannie, or else she would have told Miss White a lie; again the double working of her mind interested her; rage, and a desire to be truthful, were like layers of thought. She noted this, even while she was saying again, between set teeth, "I hate him." "He has treated you badly," Blair said. "How did you know?" she said, startled. "I know David. What does a man like David know about loving a woman? He would talk his theories and standards to her, when he could be silent--in her arms!" He flung out his hand and caught her roughly by the wrist. "Elizabeth, for God's sake, _marry me._" [Illustration: "ELIZABETH, MARRY ME!"] He had risen and was leaning toward her, his fingers gripped her wrist like a trap, his breath was hot against her neck, his eyes glowed into hers. "Marry--me, Elizabeth." The moment was primal; the intensity of it was like a rapier-thrust, down through her fury to the quick of womanly consciousness; she shrank back. "Don't," she said, faintly; "don't--" For one instant she forgot that she hated David. Instantly he was tender. "Dearest, dearest, I love you. Be my wife. Elizabeth, I have always loved you, always; don't you remember?" He was kneeling beside her, lifting the hem of her skirt and kissing it, murmuring crazy words; but he did not touch her, which showed that the excuse of passion was not yet complete. And indeed it was not, for somewhere in the tumult of his mind he was defending himself--perhaps to his god: "_I have the right._ It's all over between them. Any man has the right now." Then, aloud: "Elizabeth, I love you. I shall love you forever. Marry me. Now. To-night." When he said that, it was as if he had struck his god upon the mouth--for the accusing Voice ceased. And when it ceased, he no longer defended himself. Elizabeth looked at him, dazed. "No, I know you don't care for me, now," he said. "Never mind that! I will teach you to care; I will teach you--" he whispered: "the meaning of love! _He_ couldn't teach you; he doesn't know it himself; he doesn't"--he was at a loss for a word; some instinct gave him the right one--"want you." It was the crack of the whip! She answered it with a look of hate. But still she was silent. "You love him," he flung at her. "I do not. I hate him! hate him! hate him! I wish he were dead in this room, so I could trample on him!" Even in the scorch of that insane moment, Blair Maitland flinched at such a declaration of hate. Hate like that is the left hand of Love. He had sense enough left in his madness to know that, and he could have killed David because he was jealous of such precious hate.