Suddenly the man overcame the vanity of the artist. His eyes changed, and before she could stop him he had crushed her in his arms.
“Never mind about the picture ... it’s you I want and must have.... I love you to distraction.... Claudia, you can’t hesitate any longer.... It’s Kismet, stronger than both of us.”
She knew it would only be an unseemly scuffle if she struggled, a scuffle that would abase her pride still further. She remained cold and lifeless in his arms, until at last he released her and looked into her face with alarm.
“Claudia, you’re not going—you shan’t go——”
“Frank,” she said clearly, but without an atom of fear in her eyes, “I apologize to you. I know I’ve what you men call ‘encouraged you.’ You have the right to be angry with me, only if you love me—don’t.... I—I thought I could.... I am very unhappy.... I didn’t know myself until to-night.... There’s something that won’t let me cross the threshold.... I’m not good, and I’m not afraid of convention, but I can’t do it.... I should wake up to hate myself. It’s as well I found out in time—for you and for me.”
“You say you’re not afraid. You are afraid,” he said.
“I said I was not afraid of convention. It’s true I am afraid of something—in myself. I thought it was an easy game to play. Now I wonder how a woman can play it.... Let me go now, Frank. I’m very tired.”
“You don’t love me?”
“No ... not that way?”
Her quiet voice, her steady eyes, frightened him. He knew he was playing a losing game, and he began to bluster.