"My dear girl," he said, thoroughly alarmed, "I couldn't oppose Steppe, he's a good fellow, really he is. I'm sure you'd be happy. I'm awfully fond of you—"
"Then take me away! I'll go with you tonight—now, now! Take me. Ronnie, I'll go—now—this very minute and I'll bless you. He wouldn't want me then. I know him."
"I—I wish you wouldn't talk such rot," he quavered.
"Take me," she urged desperately. "There is a train tonight for Ostende, take me. Take me, Ronald, I could love you—I could love you in gratitude—save me from this gross man."
Ronnie, in a flurry of fear, pushed her away. "You don't know what you're talking about," he said shrilly. "Steppe would kill me. Beryl, I'm fond of you, but I can't cross Steppe."
That was the end, her last throw in the game. Ronnie was Ronnie. That was all. She was very calm now; but for her pallor and the uncontrollable tremor of her hands, her old self.
That she had humiliated herself did not bring her a moment's regret. Stampeded—she had been stampeded by sheer physical fear.
"I think I'll go," she said, taking up her furs. "You need not get me a cab—this time. And Moropulos cannot photograph me. I might have forced you to do what I wished, playing on your fears. I couldn't do that. What a coward—but I won't reproach you, Ronnie."
She held out her hand and he held it reluctantly. This time he took no risks. He gave her a minute's start and then he, too, went out. Madame Ritti was ever a place of refuge to Ronnie when his nerves were jangled.