"No dear—I'm not tired. There's no hurry. We needn't get up early to-morrow. It's so beautiful here—sitting together like this—so happy in each other's company."
"But I am tired," he said, trying to control his emotion.
It was almost more than he could endure, yet still he mastered himself, and resisted the temptation that arose violently within him to take her by force, if needs be, and carry her into the inner room, as the wild beast, tiring of playing with its victim, suddenly ends the game by seizing its hapless prey and drags it away to its lair. Was he not the master? Why should he allow her childish prattle to stand in the way of his desires. For years, Handsome had not known female society save that of those wretched outcasts who infest the mining camps. He had caroused with them and quarreled with them. He had even loved one of them—after the rough and ready fashion of the veldt. She was a Spaniard, a tall handsome woman, with large black eyes and the temper of a fury. She had killed her husband in a drunken brawl, and on leaving prison had gone to South Africa. She met the gambler one night in a gambling house, and, without as much as asking for an introduction, she went up to him and, in a characteristic Spanish style, gave him a hearty kiss on both cheeks. It was her way of notifying her female associates that, henceforth, the big miner was her man. Handsome accepted the challenge, and for a couple of years they lived as happily together as can two adventurers who are in constant hot water with the police. One day, in a fit of drunken jealousy, she struck him. Furious with rage, he seized her by the neck. He did not mean to harm her; it was his giant strength that was to blame. Anyhow her neck was broken and the coroner called it an accident. For a week or so, Handsome was really sorry. She was the only woman he had ever cared for. She at least was a woman.
But this slip of a girl, with her childish prattle and aristocratic airs, was quite different. Accustomed to the rougher ways of the camp, her fine manners and refined graces at first had rather intimidated him. He did not feel at home with her. He felt awkward and ill at ease. Yet, for all that, she was a woman, too—a woman of his own race, desirable, tempting. When François had first suggested that he impersonate his brother and enjoy his fortune, he had said nothing about his brother's wife. Perhaps he reserved her for his master, Keralio. At the thought, a pang of jealousy went through him. If Keralio, why not he? Evidently Keralio had been stalking the game, for she complained of his conduct and had dismissed him from the house. Yet, in what position was he to frustrate Keralio in any of his schemes? He had him in his power; he was completely at his mercy. He allowed him to masquerade in New York as the millionaire, but he was the real master of the Traynor home. Even now, François might be spying on their actions, eager to report to the arch conspirator. Rising from the chair, he lifted her to her feet.
"Come, darling—it is late——"
He led her slowly, almost imperceptibly, in the direction of the inner room. A feeling of languor came over her, and she allowed him to lead her, abandoning herself to his ardent, feverish embrace, responding every now and then to the hot kisses he rained on her mouth and neck. Through her thin dress he could feel her soft form pressing against him. From her neck arose a delicious aroma, a kind of feminine incense that still further aroused and lashed his desire.
"I adore you—I adore you!" he murmured, as he kissed her again. Slowly he led her past the bookcase and marble Venus to the open door of her pink and white boudoir.
