For a moment they stared at each other speechless. Then he leaped on the house and ran to her, she shrinking back from him as he tried to take her hands.
"You must not!" she cried, as he would have kissed her. "Greg, you must not! I'm married. It's all different now."
He tried to put his arms around her, but she pushed him fiercely back. Her eyes were flashing, and her bosom rose and fell.
"I'm Joe's wife," she said.
Then, from his face, she seemed to divine something.
"What have you done to Joe?" she cried. She would have passed him, but he stopped her.
"No, no!" he protested.
"Let me go, or I shall call him," she broke out. "You sha'n't insult me! You sha'n't kiss me!"
He was kissing her even as he held her back, even as she fought and struggled with him—on the lips, on the neck, on her black, loosened hair, now tangling and flying in the wind. He was so weak that she soon got the better of him—so weak and dizzy that he did not guard himself as she struck him on the mouth with her little doubled-up fist.
He put his hand to his lip and found it bleeding. He showed her what she had done. She drew back, and regarded him with mingled pity and exultation.