Jean was very near now, smiling into his eyes, and Herrick could feel the cool, firm strength of her.
"Am I?"
"Certainly, not a doubt of it. A baby that can scarcely walk. But never mind, when he gets to the end of his arc, mother'll come and push him along. Mother's a grand pusher and she adores it."
"Is she?" Herrick's voice broke and he groped for Jean with trembling hands. "Prove it—prove it." His breath came hot against her cheek as he seized her in his arms and crushed her mouth against his.
"Wake up, wake up," he panted, and through the anger and nausea that seemed to be dragging her out of consciousness, Jean heard him. Years afterwards she could recall the feel of each word as if it were a stone that was hitting her, and the feel of Herrick's unshaven chin against hers.
With all her force she tried to push him away. But, blind with his long suppression, Herrick only held her closer. Not till the edge of his hunger dulled did his hold loosen. Taking Jean's chin in his hand, he turned her face up. Instantly his arms dropped.
For a moment Herrick refused to believe the look in her eyes. Then a wave of anger swept over him, flooding his face and neck to a deep red.
"Well, we're married, aren't we?"
"If that's marriage, no." Jean stepped back out of range of this thing that had taken every scrap of her self-respect and ripped it off as if it were a cloak, that had held her, against her will, at its own pleasure. "Don't you ever kiss me like that again—ever. Do you hear?"
Herrick said nothing. He went over to the window and leaned his forehead on the cold glass. He had acted like a brute, but it didn't matter. Nothing mattered. He had shocked Jean, but that didn't matter, either. It didn't matter whether she was shocked or needed shocking or didn't need it. Nothing in the whole world mattered at all.