Amaryllis could not know that her very truculence was a fan to his flame.
"Go out of my room," she cried, and struck him on his mouth and cheek.
The blow was delivered with the action of a slap, but the fingers were clenched, and the arm was swung from the shoulder.
Melchard seized her by the elbows, cruelty and joy making in his countenance a horrible mixture of emotion.
With his face close to hers, he said:
"Oh, yes, I'll go—soon! That tawny hair of yours, Amaryllis, is splendidly voluptuous against your skin of live, creamy satin. I long to run my fingers into its meshes."
And actually he would have touched it—her hair!—but for a voice which spoke sharply through the partly-open door:
"You're wanted, Alban. Come!"
And Amaryllis, in spite of fear and disgust, almost laughed at the disgust and fear in his face as he released her.
"My men downstairs," he said. "Soon—soon I shall see you again."