THE LOVE OF MONSIEUR
would defend it if she could), she broke away from him and stood alone, pulsing with the effort, but triumphant.
“Monsieur,” she breathed with difficulty, “it is unfair—to—to—press me so.”
But he was relentless. “Ah, madame, am I then despised, as on that night in Dorset Gardens? Nay, I am as God made me—not the thing you would have supposed—”
“Monsieur, have pity.”
“Ah, then look at me again, Barbara. Look in my face and deny. Look in my eyes, chérie—deny me if you can.”
She felt his arms encircle her, and she struggled faintly.
“No, no. It is not so.”
“Look me in the eyes, Barbara; I will not believe it else. If I am nothing to you, look me in the eyes and tell me so.”
“No! No! No!”
She raised her face until her closed eyes were on a level with his own. Then she opened them with an effort to look at him, as though to speak.
A deafening crash again shook the Sally, so
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