The Rainbow

His veins fused with extreme voluptuousness. For a moment he

almost lost control of himself, and continued automatically. But

there was a moment of inaction, of cold suspension. He was not

going to take her. He drew her to him and soothed her, and

caressed her. But the pure zest had gone. She struggled to

herself and realized he was not going to take her. And then, at

the very last moment, when his fondling had come near again, his

hot living desire despising her, against his cold sensual

desire, she broke violently away from him.

"Don't," she cried, harsh now with hatred, and she flung her

hand across and hit him violently. "Keep off of me."

His blood stood still for a moment. Then the smile came again

within him, steady, cruel.

"Why, what's the matter?" he said, with suave irony.

"Nobody's going to hurt you."

"I know what you want," she said.

"I know what I want," he said. "What's the odds?"

"Well, you're not going to have it off me."

"Aren't I? Well, then I'm not. It's no use crying about it,

is it?"

"No, it isn't," said the girl, rather disconcerted by his

irony.

"But there's no need to have a row about it. We can kiss good

night just the same, can't we?"

She was silent in the darkness.

"Or do you want your hat and umbrella to go home this

minute?"

Still she was silent. He watched her dark figure as she stood

there on the edge of the faint darkness, and he waited.

"Come and say good night nicely, if we're going to say it,"

he said.

Still she did not stir. He put his hand out and drew her into

the darkness again.

"It's warmer in here," he said; "a lot cosier."

His will had not yet relaxed from her. The moment of hatred

exhilarated him.

"I'm going now," she muttered, as he closed his hand over

her.

"See how well you fit your place," he said, as he drew her to

her previous position, close upon him. "What do you want to

leave it for?"

And gradually the intoxication invaded him again, the zest

came back. After all, why should he not take her?

But she did not yield to him entirely.

"Are you a married man?" she asked at length.

"What if I am?" he said.

She did not answer.

"I don't ask you whether you're married or not," he

said.

"You know jolly well I'm not," she answered hotly. Oh,

if she could only break away from him, if only she need not

yield to him.

At length her will became cold against him. She had escaped.

But she hated him for her escape more than for her danger. Did

he despise her so coldly? And she was in torture of adherence to

him still.