He didn’t quite know himself. Being in no condition to reason clearly, he had leaped rashly to the conclusion that she had wished him to learn of her love affair as an indirect way of encouraging him. Janet could not know his thoughts precisely, but she had an inkling. She wondered that she could have been so blind as not to have seen that his studied chivalry towards women covered a strongly sensual nature. Even then, she was not insensible to the fact that Anton St. Hilaire was a pleasing man to look upon. His bright blue eyes and clear, ruddy complexion testified to a sound physique. Perhaps he was a trifle too robust. But there was a feminine comeliness about him which was a foil to his surging virility. In many women, the first quality calmed the piquant fears which the second quality excited. "Burley naturally told all sorts of lies about you," he added, for want of a better line to take. "I expected he would." "And of course I sent him about his business." "I rather expected that, too," she said, smiling in spite of a growing sense of alarm. For he had abruptly approached her and advanced as fast as she involuntarily withdrew. She retreated around the desk towards the closed door, on one side of which stood a wide leather couch. Against this she stumbled slightly, and he caught up with her. "Janet," he said, in a low voice, thick with excitement, "the way he dared to talk about you, you—so sweet, so clean, so adorable. I could have strangled the brute." "I wish you had." "You must let me protect you—" They were at cross-purposes. She thought she could still reach the door and make a dignified escape. He felt her withdrawal as an added incitement. He had so long dispensed with the anticipating, insinuating maneuvers in the technique of love-making that he had lost the knack of using them. Moreover, his muscular strength, a sanguine temperament, and past successes in sexual experiments had primed him with the belief that direct action was the shortest way with all women. "You must let me protect you—" With the words still on his lips, he took her violently in his arms. The touch of his hand against her body filled her with an enormous, sexless anger. Making an almost superhuman effort, she struck back his head and succeeded in wrenching herself from his grasp. He stumbled, but instantly picked himself up. As he tried to back her away from the door, she again raised her hand. "I can protect myself," she said, with a passionate repugnance that chilled him to the soul. "Don’t go like that," he cried, springing forward and clutching at her arm. She dragged it away, rang for the maid, and rapidly turned the door knob. "Berthe," she called down the hall, in clear ringing tones, "please open the storeroom. I want to get at my trunk." Then she turned and looked at him, cold, distinguished, unapproachable. M. St. Hilaire plumped into the nearest seat.