"I don't think," Monck said very quietly, "that you are in a position to judge me." She leaned forward. He saw that her bosom was heaving. "That is your prerogative, isn't it?" she said. "I—I am just the prisoner at the bar, and—like the moth—I have been condemned—without mercy."
He raised his brows sharply. For a second he had the look of a man who has been stabbed in the back. Then with a swift effort he pulled himself together.
In the same moment Stella rose. She was smiling, and there was a red flush in her cheeks. She took her fan from the table.
"And now," she said, "I am going to dance—all night long. Every officer in the mess—save one—has asked me for a dance."
He was on his feet in an instant. He had checked one impulse, but even to his endurance there were limits. He spoke as one goaded.
"Will you give me one?"
She looked him squarely in the eyes. "No, Captain Monck."
His dark face looked suddenly stubborn. "I don't often dance," he said. "I wasn't going to dance to-night. But—I will have one—I must have one—with you."
"Why?" Her question fell with a crystal clearness. There was something of crystal hardness in her eyes.
But the man was undaunted. "Because you have wronged me, and you owe me reparation."