As he spoke, she was conscious that his shoulder almost brushed hers. With a faintly uneasy movement she raised her head.
"What do you mean?" she asked, turning and meeting his eyes.
In the dim light of the room there was something curious, new, and alarming in the glance she encountered. He was standing exceedingly near; his face looked very pale; the pupils of his eyes were dilated, giving them a peculiar, unfamiliar look.
Embarrassed, and yet doubtful that her embarrassment was justified, she turned away, and, nervously taking a pack of cards from the table, began to pass them through her fingers.
"I don't know what you mean," she said again. "I don't understand."
Quite suddenly Serracauld laughed; and, passing his arms over hers, caught her hands, so that the cards fluttered to the table.
"Nonsense!" he said in a sharp, whispering voice—"nonsense! The prettiest woman of the season not understand!"
He laughed again, and with a swift movement freed her hands; and, clasping her suddenly and closely, forced her head backwards and bent his face to hers.
The action was not so much a kiss, as a vehement, almost painful pressure of his lips upon her mouth—something that stung her to resentment rather than to fear.
For one instant she remained passive; the next, she had freed herself with the muscular activity that had always belonged to her slight, supple frame.