She found nothing to say. And even as she fought for words she suddenly found that he had caught her in his arms, and kissed her, and that the sound of the door that had banged behind him was echoing in her ears.
She put her hands to her head. She could not see clearly.
CHAPTER XVII.
INTERVENTIONS.
That kiss gave Lady St. Craye furiously to think, as they say in France.
Had it meant—? What had it meant? Was it the crown of her hopes, her dreams? Was it possible that now, at last, after all that had gone before, she might win him—had won him, even?
The sex-instinct said "No."
Then, if "No" were the answer to that question, the kiss had been mere brutality. It had meant just:
"You chose to follow me—to play the spy. What the deuce do you want? Is it this? God knows you're welcome," the kiss following.
The kiss stung. It was not the first. But the others—even the last of them, two years before, had not had that sting.