The wine was singing in Ragna's ears, and her face was flushed, it seemed to her that she was in a dream in which she had become two distinct persons,--one a long way off, watching as at a play, what the other Ragna did. Mirko rose from his chair and led her to the couch where he seated himself beside her. He drew her head down on his shoulder and holding her close to him murmured his love in her ear. His nearness, his kisses and the low, passionate vibration of his voice overpowered her; she felt all power of resistance slip from her, his personality, his desire dominated her entirely; her lips parted, she closed her eyes, her senses swam. As in a dream, his lips found hers, she felt the heat of his breath scorching her face, a wild flame surged through her veins,--a brief almost unconscious struggle and she lay unresisting in his arms. When she came to herself again a sudden gloom pervaded the place. Large drops of rain splashed on the window-sill. She watched them idly a moment, then her eyes wandered to the other window where Mirko stood leaning, pulling at his moustache, then down to herself. Suddenly a gulf of realization and shame overwhelmed her. With a hasty hand she straightened out her skirts, then flung herself down, sobbing, her burning face hidden in the cushion. At the sound Mirko turned and came towards her, an exceedingly sheepish expression on his handsome face. "Don't, love!" he said, putting his hand on her shoulder. She writhed away from him. "Don't, dear," he repeated awkwardly, and as the girl paid no attention, he knelt at her side and kissed all that was visible of one ear. She sat up, wild-eyed and disheveled. "Oh, how could you?" she sobbed, "oh, why did you do it? Oh, how can I ever look anyone in the face again!" She flung herself down again, her voice lost in a paroxysm of grief. Mirko bit his moustache; scenes of this kind annoyed him terribly and now that his fever had passed he could think of nothing to say. Presently Ragna faced him once more. "You despise me, don't you?" she asked. "Never! Never in the world, my darling!" he cried but his voice carried no conviction. "I owe you all gratitude!" "Oh!" she said, her eyes widening, a hard look coming over her face, "oh!" He lifted her limp hand and kissed it. "I am your devoted slave,--you have given me the greatest proof of love--" "What are you going to do about it?" she interrupted. "Do about it. What is there to do? The memory of this--" "Ah, so it is already a memory to you! To me it is dishonour." "My dear child, nothing of the sort! We loved each other, we lost our heads,--there is no dishonour, no one need know." His ineffectual manner struck her like a blow. Covering her face with her hands she burst into fresh sobs. Mirko like all men, hated above all things a scene; he began to feel angry, revengeful even, the more so as his conscience reproached him. He said in a hard voice: