He unwound her arms.
"And the past?"
"Everything you shall know—there's nothing terrifying—save that one thing—and that before long."
"Is it like this," he cried, "that you have kept men in chains before—watched them go mad for sport? I'll not be your slave, Emily—shut out from your confidence—waiting day by day for God knows what."
She drew herself up. A storm of passion blazed in her face. The new tenderness which had so transfigured it, had passed away.
"Then go!" she ordered, pointing to the door. "You make a mockery of what you call love. I never wish to see you again, Douglas Jesson."
He stood facing her for a moment without movement. Then he turned and walked slowly out of the house.
CHAPTER XXXIV
THE WOOING OF CICELY
The completion of Douglas Jesson's novel was the principal event of the following week. There had come no word from Emily de Reuss, nor had Douglas himself sought her. Better, he told himself, to face his suffering like a man, grapple with it once and for all, than to become even as Drexley and those others, who had never found strength to resist. She was beautiful, magnetic, fascinating, and he loved her; on the other hand there was his self-respect and the strength of his manhood. He was young, he had courage and a career—surely the battle would go for him. But the days which followed were weary and the nights were pitiless.