“Why do you not go?” she asked. “I hate you more than any one on earth.”
“No. You love me.”
“I hate you! You are a brute! The coolest, the rudest, the most exasperating man on—on earth.”
“That is the reason you love me. My dear Mrs. Pendleton,” he continued, taking the ring from the casket and laying the latter on a rock, “a woman of brains and headstrong will—but unegoistic—likes a brutal and masterful man. An egoistical woman, whether she be fool or brilliant, likes a slave. The reason is that egoism, not being a feminine quality primarily, but borrowed from man, places its fair possessor outside of her sex’s limitations and supplies her with the satisfying simulacrum of those stronger characteristics which she would otherwise look for in man. You are not an egoist.”
He took her hand and removed her glove in spite of her resistance.
“Don’t struggle. You would only look ridiculous if any one should pass. Besides, it is useless. I am so much stronger. I do not know or care what really possessed you to indulge in such a freak as to engage yourself to four men at once,” he continued, slipping the ring on her finger. “You had your joke, and I hope you enjoyed it. The dénouement was highly dramatic. As I said, I desire no explanation, for I am never concerned with anything but results. And now—you are going to marry me.”
“I am not!” sobbed Jessica.
“You are.” He glanced about. No one was in sight. He put his arm about her shoulders, forcing her own to her sides, then bent back her head and kissed her on the mouth.
“Checkmate!” he said.
