She leaned forward, her face already subdued with thought.
"It makes you beautiful to be happy," Dresser said, with clumsy self-consciousness.
Alves's eyes responded quickly, and she leaned a little farther forward, pondering the words. Suddenly Dresser took her hand, and then locked her in his arms. Even in the roughness of his passion, he could not fail to see her white face. She struggled in his grasp without speaking, as if knowing that words would be useless. And Dresser, too embarrassed by his act to speak, dragged her closer to him.
"Don't touch me," she gasped; "what have I done!"
"I will kiss you," the man cried. "What difference is it, anyway?"
He wrested her from the low chair, and she fell without power to save herself, to struggle further. The room was swimming before her eyes, and Dresser had his arms about her. Then the door opened, and she saw Sommers enter. Her eyes filled with tears.
"What is the matter?" he exclaimed, looking sharply about at the upset chair, the prostrate form, and Dresser's red face.
"She has fallen—fainted," Dresser stammered. Alves seemed to acquiesce for a moment, and her head sank back; then she opened her eyes and looked at Sommers pitifully.
"No, Howard. Help me."
Sommers raised her, his face much troubled. While he held her, she spoke brokenly, trying to hide her face.