rm in an iron grip.

"You are clever!" he whispered hoarsely. "You are too _damned_ clever!
You are at it again, eh--to sidetrack me? It has been like that for
two years now--always in some way, by some trick, you put me off! But
you will put me off no more. You can play no trick here. We are
alone, and I will not be tricked. It is not true what you say! There
is no model like that! It is a lie!" His voice swelled until it rang
out in a strong, vibrant note. "The model is here--here in my
heart--in my brain! That face and form is the face and form of France!
It is the womanhood of France, the glory of my country! No man before
has ever conceived it. It was for me--for me--Jean Laparde--to do! Do
you hear--it is the face and the womanhood of France! You do not
understand--you are not a Frenchwoman. And you do not understand
me--who am a Frenchman!" His voice dropped low again, hoarse in its
passion. "You have gone too far!" His grip on her arm tightened.
"You love me, or you have played with me--it is all the same! The two
years have made you mine! You _are_ mine--now--now! You would starve
my love, would you, you wonderful, beautiful, glorious woman!"

He was drawing her closer and closer to him. Passion, loosened, freed,
rocking the man to the soul, was in eyes and face, in the half parted
lips, in the short, quick, panting breath. And for a moment,
fascinated, she was lifeless; then with all her strength she wrenched
and strove to free herself.

"You would not _dare_!" she gasped. "You would not--"

"Dare!"--the word was a wild, hollow laugh. "Dare! Does a man dare to
save his soul from torment? See--your lips! Your lips! Ah, God--your
lips!"

She was his--_his_! She was in his arms, crushed to him! His--as his
mad desire had bade him crush her in his arms long since in that other
life in Bernay-sur-Mer; his--as he had dreamed of crushing her in his
arms, of crushing her ravishing form close to him in the dreams of the
days and nights, every day and night since then. It was all blind
madness, a delirium of ecstasy. How warm and hot those lips of hers
from which his soul was drinking! God, how she struggled! But her
lips--her lips were his--his to rain his kisses of passionate thirst
upon--and upon her face, and upon her eyes, and upon her hair. If only
she would not struggle so, that he might smother his face, bury it in
the intoxicating fragrance of that hair!

She beat at