CHAPTER IX
SOMETHING OUT OF ANCIENT ROME
The hot torrent of words ceased. There was silence in the gaily-tinted, flower-filled salon, save for the tick of an absurd Louis Seize clock on the mantel. Under the gilt wheel of Time a cupid balanced back and forth, in a Rhinestone swing—"Yes," "No," the seesaw motion seemed to say.
The stillness was terrible to Severance. He did not get up from his knees. He did not release the women's waists from the girdle of his arms. His eyes were on the face of Marise. Never had he seen her so pale.
"For God's sake, speak!—one of you," he stammered.
Abruptly the girl pushed his arm away, and sprang to her feet.
"You are wicked!" she cried. "Horrible! It can't be true that this has happened to me. It's a nightmare. I want to wake up!"
Severance abandoned his prayerful position and faced her. He would have caught her hands, but she thrust him back with violence.
"I thought you were a modern Englishman, like other Englishmen—like all other decent men I've known. But you're not," she panted. "You're something out of the Middle Ages. No! you're before that You're of Ancient Rome—the time of the Borgias. Or Beatrice Cenci."
"Don't, don't, Marise, my child!" Mary joined soothing with command. "You'll make yourself ill. We must be calm. We must think."