“‘You are my wife,’ he said.

“Oh, I knew, then. ‘You are my wife,’ he repeated.  I wanted to scream, but I couldn’t; and then—­then—­his arms reached me; I felt them crushing around me like the coils of a great snake; the poison of his lips was at my face—­and I believed that I was lost, and that no power could save me in this hour from the man who had come to my room—­the man who was my husband.  I think it was Uncle Peter who gave me voice, who put the right words in my brain, who made me laugh—­yes, laugh, and almost caress him with my hands.  The change in me amazed him, stunned him, and he freed me—­while I told him that in these first few hours of wifehood I wanted to be alone, and that he should come to me that evening, and that I would be waiting for him.  And I smiled at him as I said these things, smiled while I wanted to kill him, and he went, a great, gloating, triumphant beast, believing that the obedience of wifehood was about to give him what he had expected to find through dishonor—­and I was left alone.

“I thought of only one thing then—­escape.  I saw the truth.  It swept over me, inundated me, roared in my ears.  All that I had ever lived with Uncle Peter came back to me.  This was not his world; it had never been—­and it was not mine.  It was, all at once, a world of monsters.  I wanted never to face it again, never to look into the eyes of those I had known.  And even as these thoughts and desires swept upon me, I was filling a traveling bag in a fever of madness, and Uncle Peter was at my side, urging me to hurry, telling me I had no minutes to lose, for the man who had left me was clever and might guess the truth that lay hid behind my smiles and cajolery.

“I stole out through the back of the house, and as I went I heard Sharpleigh’s low laughter in the library.  It was a new kind of laughter, and with it I heard John Graham’s voice.  I was thinking only of the sea—­to get away on the sea.  A taxi took me to my bank, and I drew money.  I went to the wharves, intent only on boarding a ship, any ship, and it seemed to me that Uncle Peter was leading me; and we came to a great ship that was leaving for Alaska—­and you know—­what happened then—­Alan Holt.”

With a sob she bowed her face in her hands, but only an instant it was there, and when she looked at Alan again, there were no tears in her eyes, but a soft glory of pride and exultation.

“I am clean of John Graham,” she cried. “Clean!”

He stood twisting his hands, twisting them in a helpless, futile sort of way, and it was he, and not the girl, who felt like bowing his head that the tears might come unseen.  For her eyes were bright and shining and clear as stars.

“Do you despise me now?”

“I love you,” he said again, and made no movement toward her.

“I am glad,” she whispered, and she did not look at him, but at the sunlit plain which lay beyond the window.