anger, and--another feeling,
but greatest of all now, was fear. Could this be the placid, soft-spoken
gentleman she had known,--this man, with the implacable eyes, and the
brutal jaw, who neither spoke to, nor looked at her, but frowned always
at the road in front.

And so, the fear grew and grew within her,--fear of the man whom she
knew,--and knew not at all. She clasped her hands nervously together,
watching him with dilating eyes as the car slowed down,--for the road
made a sudden turn, hereabouts.

And still he neither looked at, nor spoke to her; and therefore, because
she could bear the silence no longer, she spoke--in a voice that sounded
strangely faint, and far-away, and that shook and trembled in spite
of her.

"Where are you--taking me?"

"To be married!" he answered, never looking at her.

"You--wouldn't--dare!"

"Wait and see!" he nodded.

"Oh!--but what do--you mean?" The fear in her voice was more manifest
than ever.

"I mean that you are mine,--you always were, you always must and shall
be. So, I'm going to marry you--in about half-an-hour, by
special license."

Still he did not even glance towards her, and she looked away over the
country side all lonely and desolate under the moon.

"I want you, you see," he went on, "I want you more than I ever wanted
anything in this world. I need you, because without you my life will be
utterly purposeless, and empty. So I have taken you--because you are
mine, I know it,--Ah yes! and, deep down in your woman's heart, you know
it too. And so, I am going to marry you,--yes I am, unless--" and here,
he brought the car to a standstill, and turning, looked at her for the
first time.

And now, before the look in his eyes, her own wavered, and fell, lest he
should read within them that which she would fain hide from him,--and
which she knew they must reveal,--that which was neither shame, nor
anger, nor fear, but the other feeling for which she dared find no name.
And thus, for a long moment, there was silence.

At last she spoke, though with her eyes still hidden:

"Unless!" she repeated breathlessly.

"Anthea,--look at me!"

But Anthea only drooped her head the lower; wherefore, he leaned
forward, and--even as Small Porges had done,--set his hand beneath the
dimple in her chin, and lifted the proud, un-willing face:

"Anthea,--look at me!"

And now, what could Anthea do but obey?

"Unless," said he, as her glance, at last, met his, "unless you c