"Darling, darling--" said Paul, who knew not what to say.

"But, Paul, if a hair of your head should be hurt, I would kill him myself
with these my own hands."

Once Paul had seen two tigers fight in a travelling circus-van which came
to Oxford, and now the memory of the scene returned to him when he looked
at his lady's face. He had not known a human countenance could express
such fierce, terrible rage. A quiver ran through him. Yes, this was no
idle boast of an angry woman--he felt those slender hands would indeed be
capable of dealing death to any one who robbed her of her mate.

But what passion was here! What force! He had somehow never even dreamt
such feelings dwelt in women--or, indeed, in any human creatures out of
sensational books. Yet, gazing there at her, he dimly understood that in
himself, too, they could rise, were another to take her from him. Yes, he
could kill in suchlike case.

They were silent for some moments, each vibrating with passionate
thoughts; and then the lady leant over and laid her cheek against the
sleeve of his coat.

"Heart of my heart," she said, "I frighten and ruffle you. The women of
your country are sweet and soft, but they know not the passion I know, my
Paul--the fierceness and madness of love--"

Paul clasped her in his arms.

"It makes me worship you more, my Queen," he said. "Englishwomen would
seem like wax dolls now beside you and your exquisite face--they will