"How--how dare you!" she gasped, when at last she escaped his grasp and
faced him in the fury of outraged girlhood. "I--I--hate you!"

"Dare? When one loves one dares anything!" was his husky response. "I
shall have had my kiss and you can never forget that! Never! never!"

And Paul's voice grew exultant.

Opal had heard of the brutality, the barbarism of passion, but her life
had flowed along conventional channels as peacefully as a quiet river.
She had longed to believe in the fury of love--in that irresistible
attraction between men and women. It appealed to her as it naturally
appeals to all women who are alive with the intensity of life. But she
had _seen_ nothing of it.

Now she looked living Passion in the face for the first time, and was
appalled--half frightened, half fascinated--by the revelation. That kiss
seemed to scorch her lips with a fire she had never dreamed of. With
the universal instinct of shamed womanhood, she pressed her handkerchief
to her lips, rubbing fiercely at the soiled spot. He divined her thought
and laughed, with a note of exultation that stirred her Southern blood.

In defiance she raised her eyes and searched his face, seeking some
solution of the mystery of her own heart's strange, rebellious
throbbing. What could it mean?

Paul took another step toward her, his face softening to tenderness.

"What is it, Opal?" he breathed.