herself.

"Let me go!" she cried piteously, and it was her complete immunity from
him that she prayed for, but he chose wilfully to misunderstand her.
The passion faded from his eyes, giving place to a gleam of mockery.

"There is plenty of time. Gaston is the most discreet servant. We shall
hear him when he comes," he said with a low laugh.

But she persisted with the courage of desperation. "When will you let
me go?"

With an exclamation of impatience he put her from him roughly, and
going to the divan flung himself down on the cushions, lit another
cigarette and picked up a magazine that was lying on an inlaid stool
beside him.

She bit her lips to keep back the hysterical sobs that rose in her
throat, nerving herself with clenched hands, and followed him. "You
_must_ tell me. I _must_ know. When will you let me go?"

He turned a page with deliberation, and flicked the ash from his
cigarette before looking up. A heavy scowl gathered on his face, and
his eyes swept her from head to foot with a slow scrutiny that made her
shrink. "When I am tired of you," he said coldly.

She shuddered violently and turned away with a little moan, stumbling
blindly towards the inner room, but as she reached the curtains his
voice arrested her. He had thrown aside the magazine and was lying back
on the divan, his long limbs stretched out indolently, his hands