"Oh, no!" she said again. "No, Everard! No!"
He bent his face to hers. His lips were on her hair. "You love me, Stella," he said.
She was silent, her breathing short, spasmodic, difficult.
His cheek pressed her forehead. "Why not own it?" he said softly. "Is it—so hard?"
She lifted her face swiftly; her arms clasped his neck. "And if—if I do,—will you let me go?" she asked him tremulously.
The smile still hovered about his lips. "No," he said.
"It is madness," she pleaded desperately.
"It is—Kismet," he made answer, and took her face between his hands looking deeply, steadily, into her eyes. "Your life is bound up with mine. You know it. Stella, you know it."
She uttered a sob that yet was half laughter. "I have done my best," she said. "Why are you so—so merciless?"
"You surrender?" he said.