He paused after every phrase. Then as he had planned, he attempted passion. It was the right place for passion, and this silent, white woman with her sombre face, who for once refused to meet him, moved him to a sort of self-conscious passion. He trembled slightly, and coming a step nearer, he bent over her chair and looked into her face intently.
“You are mine, you are mine, my lady Adela!” He touched her arms deftly, attempting to arouse her. “Adela! We have lived for one another. My great woman!” He seemed to her nearer, yet nothing moved her. She even looked at him calmly. His passion was clammy. She must have more of it, however; it was like a triumph, a revenge over herself, to have him thus. “We shall make our world one long splendid day—”
His arms were about her now, and she felt the pressure of him person to person, and the kiss from his lips. Then she awoke; her breath came wildly. Suddenly she knew that he was aware that she was free to be his wife. Her brother had been in Rome. This was all prepared. It was the final play in the game to reduce her first, and make terms, his terms, later.
“No! no!” She pushed him back coldly.
“You are mine—you have said it with your eyes, once, twice, and now I take my own.”
“Yes! I have been yours in despair, in reckless thought, but—but that has passed. It is impossible!”
He looked at her nonplussed. She felt compelled to explain. “You have broken me in, made yourself my master. You made me think content with the little commonplace of life was silly. You scoffed at all the pitiful efforts of the others. And I obeyed you—I broke their laws, thinking to find peace in beauty and enjoyment—”
“Well? What do you want?”
“Want!” she repeated contemptuously. “Everything! Yon lowered me step by step, making me follow you, work for you, testing me; and if you had been enough of a man to have had pity, to have loved, then.... But, what is the use of words—I don’t love you,—understand. I feared you, but I don’t love you. And I see you now quite clearly without glamour. I—I hate the kind of man you have made yourself. I hate you,” she repeated deliberately as he stepped back.
“No, I am wrong, I despise you, as I would—I can go on working for you, admiring your clever wits, and helping you perhaps,—but I despise you so heartily that you will never feel it—” she stopped exhausted.