Immediately he loosened her without looking at her, and she stood chafing her hands, hating his indifference, though she knew it was assumed, uncertain how to regain her supremacy. Then she let instinct guide her, and she looked a little piteous.
"Don't be rough with me. I didn't mean—I don't like you to be rough with me."
He was off his horse and standing by her at those words, and, still watchful for rebuffs, he took her hand and stroked it gently.
"Did I hurt you, then?" he said.
"Yes. Why are you like that?" She lifted her head and gave him the oval face, the dark, reproachful eyes like night.
"Because I'm mad for you—mad for you. Little one—you make me mad. And you'll never marry me. I know that. And I'm a fool to let you play the devil with me. I know that, too. A mad fool. But you—you're in my blood."
Softly she said, "You never told me that before. You needn't scold me so. How should I know you wanted that?"
"You knew I loved you."
"No. I knew you liked me and I hoped—"
He bent his head to listen.