She noticed that his lips twitched, that the knuckles of his hands were white because his hands at his sides were so tightly clenched. He had sent Hector and madame away—she was quite alone in the place with him. What did it mean? Jean had never been like this before. But she was at least quite mistress of herself! She drew herself up, walked back across the room, picked up her gloves and wraps, and returned to the door.
"Open that door!" she commanded levelly. "What do you mean by acting like this? How dare you act like this? Are you mad—have you lost your senses? Do you realise what you are doing?"
He laughed outright now—with sudden harshness, bitterly.
"Mad?" he repeated in a choked voice. "Yes; I am mad! I have been mad for two years—and I have been a fool. I am mad now—but I am no longer a fool. I am going to know now—I am going to have an answer now—this afternoon—before you leave this room. When are you going to marry me?"
"Marry you?"—she started back.
"Don't do that!" he flung out passionately. "Don't act! It is no surprise, that—eh? You know! Your soul knows! I love you—I have loved you since that first time on the bridge, you remember, don't you—that bridge—when your eyes turned my blood to fire? You knew it then—you know it now!"
Once she had told herself, once in those early days before familiarity, intimacy perhaps, had blunted the eager edge of curiosity and interest with which she had studied her new sensation much as one might study a specimen under a microscope, that the man was a smouldering volcano, the soul of him elemental and turbulent. It had grown dim and hazy, that little mental note of classification—but she remembered it now. It was true! Why had she ever lost sight of it? What would he do? She was not afraid, only—only—he must not have the mastery, even for a single instant. There had been eruptions before—little ones. She had always controlled him—he was just like some great, big animal—one must never let go the leash! And, besides, some day, probably, she would marry him!
She laughed now in her turn—shortly.
"And do you think, do you imagine, Monsieur Jean"—her voice rang sharply through the room—"that you will attain your object any the more readily by acting like this?"
"Yes; I think so!"—Jean was stepping toward her, reaching out his arms to grasp her.