“You know how I love you,” he was repeating.  And he was sincere; she saw that in his eyes, in the unaccustomed colour in his face.  He loved her as such an unclean animal could love.  Oh, how he sickened her!  “Will you marry me, Gloria?  Will you forgive me for having, however unintentionally, placed you in a wrong light?  Will you give me the right to protect you, to defend your good name?  Oh, Gloria——­”

Strange that the man had never revolted her as he did now!  She wanted to get up and run from him.  Meantime she was telling herself, almost calmly:  “Yes, you’ll marry him.  The little beast!” She did get to her feet; he followed her into the hall.

“Let me be alone for a little while,” she said quietly.  She went to the stairway.  “I am going upstairs; wait here for me——­”

“You will come to me?  You will marry me?”

“I—­think—­so.  Don’t!” she cried sharply as he moved to come to her.  “Wait——­”

He swallowed nervously.  “I—­I hoped you would.  And I saw how terribly the events of the last few hours might be misconstrued.  So, Gloria, daring to hope, I sent word for a justice of the peace.  He will be here this afternoon or this evening——­”

“Justice of the peace!” Gloria’s nerves jangled loose in her irrepressible laughter.

“We’ll have a priest later, of course,” he ran on hurriedly.  “But I couldn’t arrange for one so soon.”

Gloria went slowly upstairs, walking backward, looking down on him with unfathomable eyes.

“Tell me, Gloria.  I’ll promise not to come near you until you say I may.  Is it yes?”

“Yes,” said Gloria, and was gone in a flash, turning, running up and out of sight.

He stood looking after her, tapping and tapping at his cigarette-case.

Chapter XIII

To Gloria the sluggish moments were fraught with despondency or pulsating terror.  All arrangements were made; she was powerless, in a trap; a justice was coming; she was going to marry Gratton.  She lay on her bed with her door bolted and wept bitterly, moaning over and over:  “Oh, I wish I were dead!” She heard Gratton stirring restlessly downstairs.  She herself grew restless; she sprang up, tiptoed to her door, and slipped out as silent as a shadow.  She went into the little room where the telephone was and through it to the sun-porch.  For a long time she stood looking out across the mountains, her hand pressed to lips which trembled.  She thought of her mother who, coming as fast as she could, no doubt by automobile, since she would not have the patience for trains, would not arrive before to-morrow morning.  A night here—­alone, worse than alone——­

But great as was the emotional tension, lusty and now wearied youth must be served.  She had danced and ridden all through the night; she had not had over an hour or so of broken sleep; she had been going all day.  She dropped to sleep on the swing-couch on the porch.  It was so very silent all about her; the shadows were creeping, creeping among the pines.