“My God!” he said. “Yes, you think that. You can’t see that it’s you who are cruel and you who are unjust! So long as I’ll submit like a weak nincompoop to your unnatural ruling I’m decent and nice. But when I refuse to give way to you any longer, then I’m cruel and unjust! Well, you can go on thinking that for as long as you’re fool enough. But I’ll be master. Do you understand that? We’ve tried your way, and it’s no good. Now we’ll try mine, my lady.”

“You—can’t mean—you can’t, can’t mean—you’d f-force me—?”

“Can’t I?” There was savagery in his voice, and unleashed passion. “You shall yield or you shall be made to yield. I mean that!”

Then, before she could cry out, or struggle, he dragged her roughly into his arms, and kissed her as he had never kissed her before, fiercely and hard, in anger, full on her agonised mouth.

She was helpless; his arms were like steel, and as merciless; she felt that she was suffocating and that the remnants of her sanity were slipping from her. She tried to scream, and could not; fought madly, but could not break away one inch. Then she was released, suddenly, so that she staggered backwards, panting and in wildest alarm, catching at a chair-back for support.

Through a haze she saw Stephen stride to the door and go out. She sank quivering into the chair and crouched there, listening. She heard the front-door slam, and the excited barking of the dogs. The sound of hasty, nervous footsteps died away on the gravel path; the barking grew fainter, and stopped.

She did not know how long she cowered in the chair after Stephen had gone, or how long it was before the chaotic, racing thoughts grew calmer and more reasonable. The Fear was less now Stephen had gone, but when he came back it would return, more awful this time, impossible to control. She had seen the real Stephen, the primitive Stephen, and the sight appalled her. There was no longer safety under his roof. He was merciless and powerful. He could force his will on her.

She lifted her shaking hands and looked with dilated eyes at her bruised wrists. That was Stephen. Brutal, ruthless. She had not known. All this time she had never so much as guessed at the presence of a Monster in Stephen. Were all men like that? Not gentle and admiring and kind as they showed themselves at first, but coarse and hard, like brutes. You could not fight; you were weak and helpless. A man could do what he liked with you; yes, with one hand tied behind him. Life was a nightmare, no longer a romance, a nightmare from which there was no escape.