Quickly she moved further away from the arms that would have held her.
"Won't you come willingly?" he asked, in soft, caressing tones. "Do you still refuse me the love I want, and which I know is mine?"
"I don't want you or your love," she cried wildly, frantic at the knowledge of her own helplessness.
He laughed with a touch of fierceness.
"What cruel words to throw at your lover! But since you won't come, my little slave, then—I must take you."
He would have taken her there and then, but with a swift movement she avoided him.
Then Pansy ran, as she had run from him once before, like a white wraith in the moonlight. But this time he followed.
There were no electric lights and ragtime band to run to now. Only a moonlit garden full of the scent of roses. There was no crowd of people to give her shelter, only the deep shadows of the cypresses.
In the darkness she paused, out of breath, hoping he would not see her. A vain hope. His eyes had learnt to pierce the gloom. She was in his arms almost before she knew it.
There was a brief, uneven struggle, as Pansy fought against a man who knew no law except his own desires.