A slight chill possessed her, but she was calm enough. She said: “I’d rather not understand you, Mr. Smull.”
The grin never altered: “Why not?” he demanded.
“For one thing, if you honestly cared for me you wouldn’t have brought me here alone to say so.... For another——” she looked at him curiously; “—you are married, aren’t you?”
“Is that going to matter when a man’s crazy about you——”
“Slightly,” she said.
“—Crazy enough,” he went on, ignoring her comment, “—crazy enough to tell you to hand yourself whatever you fancy? Do you get me right? You can have whatever——”
“I don’t want anything,” she said wearily, moving toward the door.
He made the mistake of laying hands on her—hot, red, puffy hands; and she struck him across his fixed grin with all her strength.
Breathless, motionless, they fell back, still confronted. A streak of bright blood divided his chin, running down from his mouth, dripping faster and faster to the rug.
He got out his handkerchief, staunched the flow, spoke while the handkerchief grew sopping red: