“Don’t!” she gasped faintly, every nerve in her quivering in a helpless effort to free herself.
“Sue! Listen to me—you poor darling!” She strained away from him, covering her lips with her clenched hands while he sought her fresh young mouth.
“Don’t!” she pleaded. “Oh, please! Please! Plea——”
He stifled her words with his lips, in a kiss that left her trembling and dazed. Only when he saw the fear in her eyes, did he open his arms and release her. Well satisfied with his work, his black eyes gleaming, the memory of her lips aflame within him, and she standing there sobbing, her flushed face buried in her hands, did not lessen in the least for him the brief ecstasy of that moment.
She tried to cry out, to speak, but her voice failed her, despite the revulsion within her—all was so new, so terrible to her. Nothing was new to Pierre Lamont. It had been like a good draft of wine. He had drained his glass.
“I hate—you—” she stammered, but he expected that. Quick to hold that which he had won, he forced her burning hands into his own, pleading with her to forgive him, that he was only human, after all; that she had made him forget at least one moment of his own unhappiness; that if she had any pity in her heart, it was time to show it now; that she had haunted him ever since that afternoon he had played for her at Mrs. Van Cortlandts’, though he was quick to pass over any further mention of her name (Rose, whom he met daily, the days he could not meet her being spent drinking morosely at his club). Again he begged her to listen to him, to forgive him; he grew even humble in his promises, until she half believed him, and suffered herself to be led to a seat beside him on the sofa—still dazed and fearing his dominating insistence—poisoned with that subtle gentleness of his, and the low, earnest tone in his voice, a voice that promised her immunity from any further display of his emotions, while she sat there, twisting her moist little handkerchief into a harder knot and trying hard to keep back the tears.
That was exactly what happened, wasn’t it, Lamont? But since you are no fool, you did not jeopardize her welfare. Life has made you what you are, and of course it is no fault of yours. Who gave you that power to hypnotize? Experience; long experience. With your good looks and your clever tenderness you have won a hundred victories over the defenseless and the weak that the world has never known, you handsome blackguard. Some day you will find your match, as you found her once in Paris—that little seamstress who never liked you—do you remember? The one who lived next to the creamery on the Rue Blanche and saved her sous and her sentiment, and who calmly dropped you a word one afternoon, and the next found you sailing from Havre. You even took a first-class ticket—as if the police are fastidious as to what class a man they’re after travels in.
“What did he think of her? What could he think of her?” she thought—afraid to ask him.
“Please go,” she murmured, at length, her breath coming in short gasps. “Won’t you go now?” she pleaded.
“And you’ll forgive me?” he insisted. “We’re going to be old friends, aren’t we? Just as we were before—and forget all about it.”