"No," he muttered, "she was my last."
Mrs. Cheyne's lids dropped, and she looked away from him. Had Wray been watching her he would have discovered that the ends of her lips were flickering on the verge of a smile, but Wray's gaze was on the andirons.
They sat there in silence for some moments, but Wray, who first spoke, restored her self-complacency.
"You're very kind to me," he said slowly. "You say you like me because I'm different from other fellows here. I suppose I am. I was born different and I guess I grew up different. If you think I'm worth while, then I'm glad I grew up the way I did." He got up and walked slowly the length of the room. She watched him doubtfully, wondering what was passing in his mind. She learned in a moment; for when he approached her again he leaned over her chair and, without the slightest warning, had put his arms around her and kissed her again and again on the lips.
She did not struggle or resist. It seemed impossible to do so, and she was too bewildered for a moment to do anything but sit and stare blankly before her. He was a strange fish—a most extraordinary fish which rose only when one had stopped fishing. It was the way he did it that appalled her—he was so brutal, so cold-blooded. When he released her she rose abruptly, her face pale and her lips trembling.
"She did not struggle or resist. It seemed impossible to do so."
"How could you?" she said. "How could you?" And then, with more composure, she turned and pointed toward the door.
"I wish you'd please go—at once."
But as he stood staring at her she was obliged to repeat: "Don't you hear me? I want you to go and not to come back. Isn't that plain? Or would you prefer to have me ring for a servant?"