She paused, as though expecting some reply, but Max remained silent, his arms folded across his chest, his head a little bent.
"I was only a child when you married me, Max," she went on presently.
"I didn't realise what it meant for a husband to have some secret
business which he cannot tell his wife. But I know now what it means.
It's merely an excuse to be always with another woman—"
In a stride Max was beside her, his eyes blazing, his hands gripping her shoulders with a clasp that hurt her.
"How dare you?" he exclaimed. "Unsay that—take it back? Do you hear?"
She shrank a little, twisting in his grasp, but he held her remorselessly.
"No, I won't take it back. . . . Ah! Let me go, Max, you're hurting me!"
He released her instantly, and, as his hands fell away from her shoulders, the white flesh reddened into bars where his fingers had gripped her. His eyes rested for a moment on the angry-looking marks, and then, with an inarticulate cry, he caught her to him, pressing his lips against the bruised flesh, against her eyes, her mouth, crushing her in his arms.
She lay there passively; but her body stiffened a little, and her lips remained quite still and unresponsive beneath his.
"Diana! . . . Beloved! . . ."
She thrust her hands against his chest.