"I've tried to treat you with respect. I've tried to be gentle and honorable. Now if you don't want that, if you want this he-man sort of wooing, by God you'll get it!"
He kicked his chair back angrily and advanced about the table. A big blue vein which ran down over his forehead stood out in knots. Jane rose.
"Dick!" she cried and in the one word was disappointment, anger, appeal, reproach, query.
"Oh, I'm through," he muttered. "I used to think you were a different sort; used to think you were fine and finished. But if you're a woman in the raw ... then I'll treat you as such. You've got me, either way; I can't get you out of my mind an hour.
"I'm through holding myself back, now. You've driven me mad and you prove by your own insinuations that the lover you want is not the one who will dally with you. You want the primitive, go-and-get-it kind, the kind that takes and keeps. Well, mine can be that kind!"
She backed from him slowly and he kept on advancing with a menacing assurance, his face contorted with jealousy and desire.
"The other day,"—stopping a moment, "when I took your hands and felt your body here in this room I was almost beside myself. You haven't been out of my thoughts an hour since then! I tried to kill it with reason and then with drink. I've tried to be patient and wait among the ... the cattle in that little town." He walked on toward
her.
"Dick, are you mad?" she challenged, trying to summon her assurance through the fright which he had given her. "It's not what you think.... It's none of your affair—
"Dick!"
He grasped her wrists roughly.