“You delay me. That is why. What I would do to a man who struck me I have told you.”
“But you can’t think I believe you.”
This time he was not to be turned aside.
“The real question is what to do to a woman.” He approached her. “When I look at you, one punishment only seems possible.”
He took her by the shoulders in a grip of a surprising firmness. There was sudden alarm in those eyes of hers that hitherto had been so mocking.
“Randal!” she cried out, guessing his purpose.
Undeterred he accomplished it. Having kissed her, he loosed his hold, and stood back for the explosion which from his knowledge of her he was led to expect. But no explosion came. She stood limply before him, all the raillery gone out of her, whilst slowly the colour faded from her cheeks. Then it came flowing back in an all-suffusing flood, and there was a pathetic quiver at the corners of her mouth, a suspicious brightness in her drooping eyes.
“Why, Nan!” he cried, alarmed by phenomena so unexpected and unusual.
“Oh, why did you do that?” she cried on a sob.
Here was meekness! Had she boxed his ears again, it would have surprised him not at all. Indeed, it is what he had looked for. But that she should be stricken so spiritless, that she should have no reproof for him beyond that plaintive question, left him agape with amazement. It occurred to him that perhaps he had found the way to tame her; and he regretted on every count that he should not have had recourse before to a method so entirely satisfactory to himself. Meanwhile her question craved an answer.