Jack thought about Monica. He wanted Monica. But he also couldn't bear to let Mary go. This arrogance in him made him silent for some moments. Then he turned to Mary, his head erect, and looked down sternly on her small sinking figure in the pale lace dress.
"Do you want him?" he asked, in a subtle tone of authority and passion.
Mary was silent for some moments.
"No-o!" she faltered. "Not—not——"
Her hands lay inert in her lap. They were small, soft, dusky hands. The flame went over him, over his will. By some curious destiny, she really belonged to him. And Monica? He wanted Monica too. He wanted Monica first. But Mary also was his. Hard and savage he accepted this fact.
He took her two hands and lifted them to his lips, and kissed them with strange, blind passion. When the flame went over him, he was blind. Mary gave a little cry, but did not withdraw her hands.
"I thought you cared for Rackett," he said suddenly, looking at her closely. She shook her head, and he saw she was crying.
He put his arm round her and gathered her in her lace dress to his breast. She was small, but strangely heavy. Not like that whip-wire of a Monica. But he loved her heaviness too. The heaviness of a dark magnetic stone. He wanted that too.
And in his mind he thought, "Why can't I have her too? She is naturally mine."
His soul was hard and unbending. "She is naturally mine!" he said to himself. And he kissed her softly, softly, kissed her face and her tears. And all the while Mary knew about Monica. And he, his soul fierce, would not yield in either direction. He wanted to marry her, and he wanted to marry Monica. Something was in Mary that would never be appeased unless he married her. And something in him would never be appeased unless he married Monica. His young, clear instinct saw both these facts. And the inward imperiousness of his nature rose to meet it.—"Why can't I have both these women?" he asked himself. And his soul, hard in its temper like a sword, answered him: "You can if you will."