“Oh,” said she, very grave, “I hadn't realized that.” “If we can just keep our heads---more carefully--spend the money where it will really show on the film--don't you see, we can swing it, and when we've done it, it won't belong to the Interstellar people--or to Silverstone; it'll be ours. And that means it'll be what we--you--want it to be and not something vulgar and--and nasty. The other way, it we give Zanin his head and begin spending money magnificently, we'll run out, and then the price of a little more money, if we can get it at all, will be, the control.” Re reached down for the books, threw them back into the drawer, slammed it and locked it. “Yes,” he said, “that's all I've got. I pledge it all, here and now, to the dream you've dreamed. All I ask is, keep in mind what may happen when it's gone.” She rose now; stood thinking; then drew on her lam o'shanter and reached for her coat. “Let me think this over,” she said soberly. “We must be businesslike,” said he. “Impersonal.” “Yes,” said she, and stepped over to the fire, low-burning now with a mass of red coals. Peter's eyes, deep, gloomy behind the big glasses, followed her. He came slowly and stood by her. “I must go,” she said gently. “It'll he eleven first thing we known It would be a bit too amusing to be put out.” They lingered. Then Peter found himself lifting his arms. He tried to keep them down, but up, up they came--very slowly, he thought. He caught her shoulders, swung her around, drew her close. It seemed to him afterward, during one of the thousand efforts he made to construct a mental picture of the scene, that she must have been resisting him and that he must have been using his strength; but if this was so it made no difference. Her head was in the hollow' of his arm. He bent down, drew her head up, kissed, as it happened, her nose; forced her face about and at the second effort kissed her lips. If she was struggling--and Peter will never be quite clear on that point--she was unable to resist him. He kissed her again. And then again. A triumphant fury was upon him. But suddenly it passed. He almost pushed her away from him; left her standing, limp and breathless, by the mantel, while he threw himself on the couch and plunged his face into his hands. “You'll hate me,” he groaned. “You won't ever speak to me again. You'll think I'm that sort of man, and you'll be right in thinking so. What's worse, you'll believe I thought you were the sort to let me do it. And all the time I love you more than--Oh God, what made me do it! What could I have been thinking of! I was mad!” Then the room was still. CHAPTER XII--THE MOMENT AFTER |PETER tried to think. He could not lie there indefinitely with his face in his hands. But he couldn't think. His mind had stopped running.... At last he must face her. He remembered Napoleon. Slowly he lifted his head; got up.