He went on, a vein of recklessness running through his speech. "It won't make any difference if you are. Do you understand? I've tried to let you go, but I can't. I must have you or die."
He paused a moment, and it seemed as if the tornado of his passion were sweeping back again; but, curiously, he checked it.
"That's how it is with me, Avery," he said. "The fates have played a ghastly joke on me, but you are mine in spite of it. You came to tell me so; didn't you?"
Was there a note of pleading in his voice? She fancied so; but still she could not speak in answer. She leaned against him with every pulse throbbing. She dared not turn her face to his.
"Are you afraid of me, Avery?" he said, and this time surely she heard a faint echo of that boyish humour that had first won her. "Because it's all right, dear," he told her softly. "I've got myself in hand now. You know, I couldn't hold you in my arms just then and not—not kiss you. You don't hate me for it, do you? You—understand?"
Yes, she understood. Yet she felt as if he had raised a barrier between them which nothing could ever take away. She tried to ignore it, but could not. The glaring fact that he had not cared how much or how little she had desired those savage kisses of his had begun already to torment her, and she knew that she would carry the scorching memory of those moments with her for the rest of her life.
She drew herself slowly from him. "I am going now," she said.
He put out a hand that trembled and laid it on her shoulder. "If I will let you go, Avery!" he said, and she was again aware of the leaping of the flame that had scarcely died down but a moment before.
She straightened herself and resolutely faced him. "I am going,
Piers," she said.
His hand tightened sharply. He caught his breath for a few tense seconds. Then very slowly his hold relaxed; his hand fell. "You will let me see you back," he said, and she knew by his voice that he was putting strong force upon himself.