"You can't help being Jennie," he muttered, brokenly, "the girl I worship and who worships me. Jennie! Jennie! Jennie!"
"Oh, don't, Hubert; don't!" she begged. "To-morrow! I'll come to-morrow, and then—"
But he smothered these protests.
"You wildcat! You adorable tigress!"
"Yes, Hubert—but to-morrow—"
"No, no!"
His kisses, his brutalities, were agony to her, and yet they were bliss. She didn't know why she fought them off, or what instinct led her to defend herself, or how she found herself out on the stairs.
She went down slowly. She was not angry; she was only excited and a little amused. Sex fury was less romantic than she had supposed; but as an exhibition of the human being at his most animal, it was "some curtain raiser." If she had to go through it again....
But as she jogged toward the ferry in the street car, this mood passed off. She grew sick with a sense of failure. Love and twenty-five thousand dollars were at stake, and she had funked the game. She was not a sport; she wondered if she were a woman. If she couldn't play up better than this, she would have Bob back on her hands again and be shamed forever before Mrs. Collingham, who had been so good to her. Moreover, if she continued to play fast and loose with Wray he would certainly return to Miss Brasshead.
She dreaded reaching the ferry and having to go on the boat. The river was now haunted by Bob, like the sea by a phantom ship. While crossing, she sat with her eyes closed so as to shut out this memory by not looking at the water.