It seemed that she must run from him, that she abhorred him—and yet—and yet—"Jean must not know!" She must get Paul Valmain to promise too—Paul Valmain, and that other man who had been with him.
"Mademoiselle!" he said again. "I—"
"Yes," she said—and stepped past him through the salon door.
— VII —
MEA CULPA
The man frightened her. He had caught her arm the moment she had entered the salon, and had hurried her roughly across the room and into the atelier; and, besides, his face was ghastly it was so colourless, and it kept twitching, and his eyes burned with such an unnatural light.
"My arm, monsieur!" she cried out. "You are hurting me!"
He laughed at her in a hollow way, and only tightened his hold, as he pulled her in front of the clay figure of the "Fille du Régiment."
"Stand so!" he burst out. "With your head—so! As you were when you came from that dressing room! So—so!"—he pushed her chin up, and grasped her by the shoulders.