Encouraged by this he renewed his endearments even before the waiters had left the room, and when they had gone, with orders not to return until he rang, and the door was closed behind them, he switched off the lights, pushed a sofa in front of the fire, put me to sit on it, sat down beside me and redoubled his tenderness.

“How’s my demure little nun now?” he said.  “Frightened, wasn’t she?  They’re all frightened at first, bless them!”

I could smell the liquor he had been drinking.  I could see by the firelight the prominent front tooth (partly hidden by his moustache) which I had noticed when I saw him first, and the down of soft hair which grew as low on his hands as his knuckles.  Above all I thought I could feel the atmosphere of other women about him—­loose women, bad women as it seemed to me—­and my fear and disgust began to be mixed with a kind of physical horror.

For a little while I tried to fight against this feeling, but when he began to put his arms about me, calling me by endearing names, complaining of my coldness, telling me not to be afraid of him, reminding me that I belonged to him now, and must do as he wished, a faintness came over me, I trembled from head to foot and made some effort to rise.

“Let me go,” I said.

“Nonsense,” he said, laughing and holding me to my seat.  “You bewitching little woman!  You’re only teasing me.  How they love to tease, these charming little women!”

The pupils of his eyes were glistening.  I closed my own eyes in order to avoid his look.  At the next moment I felt his hand stray down my body and in a fury of indignation I broke out of his arms and leapt to my feet.

When I recovered my self-possession I was again looking out of the window, and my husband, who was behind me, was saying in a tone of anger and annoyance: 

“What’s the matter with you?  I can’t understand.  What have I done?  Good heavens, we are man and wife, aren’t we?”

I made no answer.  My heart which had been hot with rage was becoming cold with dread.  It seemed to me that I had suffered an outrage on my natural modesty as a human being, a sort of offence against my dignity as a woman.

It was now dark.  With my face to the window I could see nothing.  The rain was beating against the glass.  The sea was booming on the rocks.  I wanted to fly, but I felt caged—­morally and physically caged.

My husband had lit a cigarette and was walking up and down the sitting-room, apparently trying to think things out.  After awhile he approached me, out his hand on my shoulder and said: 

“I see how it is.  You’re tired, and no wonder.  You’ve had a long and exhausting day.  Better go to bed.  We’ll have to be up early.”

Glad to escape from his presence I allowed him to lead me to the large bedroom.  As I was crossing the threshold he told me to undress and get into bed, and after that he said something about waiting.  Then he closed the door softly and I was alone.