“I tried so hard to resist him. I pleaded, I wept. I begged on my knees—like this.”
“Please—please don't,” murmured Christopher, as he felt the softness of her supplicating body.
“But Julian was pitiless. He caught me in his arms. I fought against him. I struck him as I felt his loathsome kisses. I said I would scream for help and—he laughed at me. Then—”
She stopped abruptly, leaving her confession unfinished, and, standing close to her lover, held him fascinated by the wild appeal of her eyes and the heaving of her bosom.
Suddenly Christopher's heart froze with terror. The dreaded change had come. This glorious young creature whose glances thrilled him, whose flaunted beauty maddened him, was not Penelope any more, but the other, Fauvette, the temptress, the wanton.
“Chris!” she stepped before him splendid in the intensity of her emotion. Her garment was disarranged, her beautiful hair spread over her white shoulders. She came close to him—closer—and clung to him.
“Why—why did you lock that door?” he asked unsteadily.
“I did not notice,” she answered in pretended innocence, and he knew that she was lying. “Do you mind, dear? Do you mind being alone with me?” Then, before he could answer, she offered her lips. “My love! My husband! Kiss me!”
It was too much. He clasped her in his arms and held her. He knew his danger, but forgot everything in the deliciousness of her embraces.
“Penelope!”