"By God, Diana! What do you think I'm made of?" he burst out violently. "For months you've shut yourself away from me and I've borne it, waiting—waiting always for you to come back to me. Do you think it's been easy?" His limbs were shaking, and his eyes burned into hers. "And now—now you tell me that you've done with me. . . You take everything from me! My love is to count for nothing!"
"You never loved me!" she protested, with low, breathless vehemence.
"It—it could never have been love."
For a moment he was silent, staring at her.
Then he laughed.
"Very well. Call it desire, passion—what you will!" he exclaimed brutally. "But—you married me, you know!"
She cowered away from him, looking to right and left like a trapped animal seeking to escape, but he held her ruthlessly, forcing her to face him.
All at once, her nerve gave way, and she began to cry—helpless, despairing weeping that rocked the slight form in his grasp. As she stood thus, the soft silk of her wrapper falling in straight folds about her; her loosened hair shadowing her white face, she looked pathetically small and young, and Errington suddenly relinquished his hold of her and stepped back, his hands slowly clenching in the effort not to take her in his arms.
Something tugged at his heart, pulling against the desire that ran riot in his veins—something of the infinite tenderness of love which exists side by side with its passion.
"Don't look like that," he said hoarsely. "I'll—I'll go."
He crossed the room, reeling a little in his stride, and, unlocking the door, flung it open.