her pound of flesh.

"John, darling," she said, slipping her hand into his, under the rug as
they drove, "this beautiful place makes me feel so romantic. I wish you
would make love to me. You sit there looking like Dante with a beard, as
cold as ice."

"I am very sorry," he answered, startled from a reverie. "I know I am a
failure in such sort of ways. What do you want me to say?"

This was not promising, and her annoyance increased.

"I want you to tell me you love me--over and over again," she whispered,
controlling her voice.

"Women always ask these questions," he said to gain time. "They never
take anything for granted as men do."

"No!" she flashed. "Not when a man's actions point to the possibility of
several other interpretations of his sentiments--then they want words to
console them. But you give me neither."

"I am not a demonstrative person," he responded. "I will do all I can to
make you happy, but do not ask me for impossibilities. You will have to
put up with me as I am."

"I shall decide that!" And she snatched away her hand angrily, and then
controlled herself--the moment had not yet come. He should not have
freedom, which now she felt he craved; he should remain tied until he
had at all events paid the last price of humiliation. So for the rest of
that day and those that followed she behaved with maddening
capriciousness, keeping him waiting for every meal and every
appointment--changing her mind as to what she would do--lavishing
caresses upon him which made him wince, and then treating him with
mocking coldness; but all with such extreme cleverness that she never
once gave him the chance to bring things to an open rupture. She was
beginning really to enjoy herself in this new game--it required even
more skill to torture and hold than to attract and keep at arm's length.
But at last John Derringham could bear no more.

They had continuous lunches and dinners with the gay party of Americans
who had been of the company on the first evening, and there was never a
moment's peace. A life in public was as the breath of Cecilia
Cricklander's nostrils, and she did not consider the wishes of her
betrothed. In fact, but for spoken sympathy over his shattered condition
and inability to walk much, she did not consider him at all, and exacted
his attendance on all occasions, whether too fatiguing for him or not.

The very last shred of glamour about her had long fallen from John
Derringham's eyes, and