“Because it behoves you to know them,” he answered, thoughtfully tapping the table. “I have no one, save my brother, whom I can trust.”
She would not ask him why he trusted her, nor why he thought he could trust her. For a moment or two she watched him, while he, with his eyes lowered, stood in deep thought. At last he looked up and his eyes met hers.
“Come!” he said abruptly, and in a different tone, “we must end this! Is it to be a kiss or a blow between us?”
She rose, though her knees shook under her; and they stood face to face, her face white as paper.
“What—do you mean?” she whispered.
“Is it to be a kiss or a blow?” he repeated. “A husband must be a lover, Madame, or a master, or both! I am content to be the one or the other, or both, as it shall please you. But the one I will be.”
“Then, a thousand times, a blow,” she cried, her eyes flaming, “from you!”
He wondered at her courage, but he hid his wonder. “So be it!” he answered. And before she knew what he would be at, he struck her sharply across the cheek with the glove which he held in his hand. She recoiled with a low cry, and her cheek blazed scarlet where he had struck it.
“So be it!” he continued sombrely. “The choice shall be yours, but you will come to me daily for the one or the other. If I cannot be lover, Madame, I will be master. And by this sign I will have you know it, daily, and daily remember it.”
She stared at him, her bosom rising and falling, in an astonishment too deep for words. But he did not heed her. He did not look at her again. He had already turned to the door, and while she looked he passed through it, he closed it behind him. And she was alone.
