And now it was her turn to flush and wince. But was it wincing? The pulse which throbbed through her—was it truly resentment? A sense of sudden bewilderment came over her—a bewilderment which sought refuge, at first, in silence.
"You—you almost threatened me," she allowed at last, with the ghost of a tiny smile. "And I am not accustomed to threats. They—they made me angry."
"Yes, but you understood!" he cried. "You understood what I sought and for what reward?"
There was something masterful, triumphant in his tone which grated on her instincts, a reaction to the days when all he said and did grated upon her. And it helped her to regain command of herself, to snatch herself from the brink to which she was drifting.
"I hoped I misunderstood," she said coolly. "For it was a liberty. At the time I considered it an insult."
She did not look at him, but she heard the quick intake of his breath. And the sudden pain in his voice smote her with remorse.
"As an insult it is atoned?" he asked. "Does it remain a liberty still?"
She turned her eyes to his, and he looked up to know his opportunity there, and could not grasp it. He lay a prisoner at her feet. If he had been free, if his arms had been about her, if he had used his man's strength and mastery to take and hold her, if opportunity had not mocked him, would he have won? Fate knows, but fate was smiling then. And the history of man and maid from all ages is with us. Yes, he would have won; he would have won.
She gave a tiny gasp, and then the fugitive instinct, the primeval resort to flight, was upon her. She sent opportunity packing with her reply.
"I am here, by my own choice, with you—alone," she reminded him. "A liberty may become a question of—circumstance."