Reckless impulse urged her on. Heart and pulses were beating very fast
with a persistent desire to hurt him. Her animation, brilliant colour,
her laughter seemed to wing every word like an arrow. She knew he shrank
from what she was saying, in spite of his polite attention, and her
fresh, curved cheek and parted lips took on a brighter tint. Something
was singing, seething in her veins. She lifted her glass, set it down,
and suddenly pushed it from her so violently that it fell with a crash.
A wave of tingling heat mounted to her face, receded, swept back again.
Confused, she straightened up in her chair, breathing fast. _What_ was
coming over her? Again the wave surged back with a deafening rush; her
senses struggled, the blood in her ran riot. Then terror clutched her.
Neither lips nor tongue were very flexible when she spoke.

"Duane--if you don't mind--would you go away now? I've a wretched
headache."

He shrugged and stood up.

"It's curious," he said reflectively, "how utterly determined we seem to
be to misunderstand each other. If you would give me half a
chance--well--never mind."

"I wish you would go," she murmured, "I really am not well." She could
scarcely hear her own voice amid the deafening tumult of her pulses.
Fright stiffened the fixed smile on her lips. Her plight paralysed her
for a moment.

"Yes, I'll go," he answered, smiling. "I usually am going
somewhere--most of the time."