eye saw that she was trembling. He set his teeth and then drew several long puffs on his cigarette.
"I'm going to count to ten, pal, and when I finish you're going to tell me everything straight. In the mean time don't stay there thinking up a new lie. I know you too well, and if you try the same thing on me again—"
"Well?" she snarled, all the tiger coming back in her voice.
"You'll talk, all right. Here goes the count: One—two—three—four—"
As he counted, leaving a long drag of two or three seconds between numbers, there was not a change in the figure of the girl. She still lay with her back turned on him, and the only expressive part that showed was her hand. First it lay limp against her hip, but as the monotonous count proceeded it gathered to a fist.
"Five—six—seven—"
It seemed that he had been counting for hours, his will against her will, the man in him against the woman in her, and during the pauses between the sound of his voice the very air grew charged with waiting. To the girl the wait for every count was like the wait of the doomed traitor when he stands facing the firing-squad, watching the glimmer of light go down the aimed rifles.
For she knew the face of the man who sat there counting; she knew how the firelight flared in the dark-red of his hair and made it seem like another fire beneath which the blue of the eyes was strangely
