The cigarette dropped from her fingers; she sat up.  Then he saw that she too was agitated.  There was an unusual spot of colour in her cheeks, her breathing was certainly less regular.  The variance from her habitual placidity encouraged him.  He scarcely hesitated for a moment.

“You’ll think I’m insane,” he began.  “I don’t care.  There’s Drexley, heartbroken, that other poor wretch mad, and others that they have told me of.  Do you know that these men are your victims, Emily de Reuss?”

“My—­victims?”

“Ay.  Now listen.  I will absolve you from blame.  I will say that the fault was theirs, that your kindness was meant for kindness and nothing else, a proof, if you will, of a generous nature.  What does it matter?  These men have poured out their lives upon the altar of your vanity.  They have given you their love, and you have given them—­nothing.  I honestly believe nothing.  I will believe that theirs was the fault, that you are not heartless nor vain nor indifferent.  Only I am not going to be as these men, Emily.  I love you—­no one but you, you always, and you shall be mine, or I will leave your doors for ever, and crush down every thought of you.  A curse upon friendship and such rubbish.  You are a beautiful woman, far above me—­but at least I am a man—­and I love you—­and I will have you for my own or no other woman.”

He bent down, snatched hold of her hands and drew her face towards his.  His heart leaped in quick, fierce beats.  At least she was not indifferent.  Her cheeks were flushed and her eyes marvellously soft.  She did not repulse him, nor did she yield herself at once to his embrace.  She looked up at him with wet eyes and a curious smile.

“My friend,” she said, “do you wish to take me by storm.  What is all this you are saying—­and why do you look so fierce?”

“Because I am desperate, dear,” he answered.  “Because I am alone with you, the woman I love, and because a single word from you can open the gates of Heaven for me.  Don’t think I am too rough.  I will not hold you for a moment if you bid me let you go.  See, you are free.  Now you shall answer me or I will read your silence as I choose—­and—­”

His arms were around her waist.  Her face was turned away, but he saw the glitter of a tear in her eyes, and he was very bold.  He kissed it away.

“Emily,” he cried, “you care for me—­a little.  You are not heartless.  Dear, I will wait for you as long as you like.”

She unclasped his hands and drew a little away from him.  But he did not lose heart, for though her smile was a wistful one, her eyes were soft with unshed tears, and her face was the face of a woman.

“Douglas,” she said, “will you listen to me for a moment?  You spoke of those other men, you charged me with heartlessness.  Perhaps you were right.  What then?”

The brutal selfishness of love and of youth swept from his memory Strong’s broken life and Drexley’s despair.