Then Barlow came down this afternoon looking for you. He said
you'd been missing for two days. So I--I--"
She broke off. Fyfe was walking toward her with that peculiar,
lightfooted step of his, a queer, tense look on his face.
"Nero fiddled when Rome was burning," he said harshly. "Did you come to
sing while _my_ Rome goes up in smoke?"
A little, half-strangled sob escaped her. She turned to go. But he
caught her by the arm.
"There, lady," he said, with a swift change of tone, "I didn't mean to
slash at you. I suppose you mean all right. But just now, with
everything gone to the devil, to look up and see you here--I've really
got an ugly temper, Stella, and it's pretty near the surface these days.
I don't want to be pitied and sympathized with. I want to fight. I want
to hurt somebody."
"Hurt me then," she cried.
He shook his head sadly.
"I couldn't do that," he said. "No, I can't imagine myself ever doing
that."
"Why?" she asked, knowing why, but wishful to hear in words what his
eyes shouted.
"Because I love you," he said. "You know well enough why."
She lifted her one free hand to his shoulder. Her face turned up to his.
A warm wave of blood dyed the round, white neck, shot up into her
cheeks. Her eyes were suddenly aglow, lips tremulous.
"Kiss me, then," she whispered. "That's what I came for. Kiss me, Jack."
If she had doubted, if she had ever in the last few hours looked with
misgiving upon what she felt herself impelled to do, the pressure of
Jack Fyfe's lips on hers left no room for anything but an amazing thrill
of pure gladness.
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