e, high-minded girl he had grown
to love and revere? She spoke, and then he knew that the consuming fire
in his blood was unholy,--as unholy as the spark that set it ablaze.

"Damn you!" he whispered hoarsely,--but he did not put her away from
him. The lure of the flesh was upon him. It was stronger than his will,
stronger than his love.

For months this woman had beguiled him. There had been times when he was
compelled to fight himself,--times when he asked: "Why not?"

She was alluring, she was frankly a sensualist; but she was patient, she
was crafty. She knew that he was honourably in love with another, but
she was not deterred by that nor by the conviction that her conquest,
if she prevailed, would be transitory. She had a code of her own. It
included an uncertain element of honour, fixed rather rigidly upon what
she would have called constancy. Singleness of purpose was her notion of
morality. She would not have believed herself to be a bad woman any more
than she would have looked upon her lover as a bad man. To her, morality
in its accepted sense signified no more than the suppression of human
emotions and human sensations. As a matter of fact, she considered
herself a good woman if for no other reason than that she steadfastly
had repelled the munificent appeals of countless infatuated men.
Treasure had been laid at her feet, only to be kicked aside. She calmly
spoke of herself as a pearl without price. She was content to possess,
but not to be possessed. That was what she called self-respect. She was
a pagan, but she was her own idol. She worshipped herself. She would
never permit her idol to be desecrated.

All this Percival knew,--or rather sensed. He was not above feeling
a queer sort of respect and admiration for her. She was not without
integrity.

He had reached the pinnacle of happiness in believing that the girl he
loved was in his arms. He was blind and deaf with ecstasy. The awakening
was a shock. His senses reeled for an instant,--and then Ruth Clinton
went out of his thoughts entirely!

"Damn you!" he cried again, and drew her close. "She hates me,--she
will always hate me," he was mumbling. "Why should I care? Why should
I refuse to take--" Her lips were on his again, warm, firm, voluptuous,
drawing his heart's blood with the resistless power of a magnet.

They did not hear the rapid approach of footsteps--heavy, swift as of
one running. A dark, panting figure raced past them, and then anot