"Do you know," he said--and he looked handsome and powerful in his white
clothes; he was splendidly correct in every detail--"there are times
when I think you forget that you are my wife."

"I try to." Like all quiet people Meredith could shatter one's poise at
times by her daring. She looked so small and defiant as she lay
there--so secure!

"Suppose I commanded you to come with me to-morrow? Made my rightful
demand after this hellish year--what would you do?"

Thornton's chin projected; his mouth smiled, not pleasantly, and his
eyes held Meredith's with a light that frightened her. She sat up.

"Of course I should refuse to go with you," she replied, "and I do not
acknowledge any rights of yours except those that I give you. You
apparently overlook the fact that--I make no claims."

"Claims?" Thornton laughed, and the sound had a dangerous note that
startled Meredith. "Claims? Good Lord! That's quaintly delicious. You
don't know men, my dear. It would be a deed of charity to--inform you.
Claims, indeed! You drove me, when you might have held me, and you talk
claims."

"I did not want to hold you--after I knew that you had never really been
mine." Meredith's words were shaken by an emotion beyond Thornton's
comprehension; they further aroused the brute in him.

"This comes of locks and bars!" he sneered, recalling Doris's
expression, "but, damn it all, unless you were more fool than most girls