swaying, unsteady world, and faced her companion, who had silently resumed his seat. "Nicholas Devine," she said slowly, speaking as if each word were an effort, "I hate you!" "Ah!" he said and was again silent. She forced her eyes to focus on his face, while his features danced vaguely as if smoke flowed between the two of them. It was as if there were smoke in her mind as well; she made a great effort to rise above the clouds that bemused her thoughts. "Take me home," she said. "Nicholas, I want to go home." "Why should I?" he asked impassively. "The experiment is hardly begun." "Experiment?" she echoed dully. "Oh, yes--experiment. I'm an experiment." "An experiment in evil," he said. "Yes--in evil. And I hate you! That's evil enough, isn't it?" He reached down, lifted the bottle to the table, and methodically poured himself a drink of the liquor. He raised it, watching the oily swirls in the light, then tipped the fluid to his lips while the girl gazed at him with a sullen set to her own lips. A tiny crimson spot had appeared in the corner of her mouth; at its sting, she raised her hand and brushed it away. She stared as if in unbelief at the small red smear it left on her fingers. "Nicholas," she said pleadingly, "won't you take me home? Please, Nicholas, I want to leave here." "Do you hate me?" he asked, a queer twisting smile appearing on his lips. "If you'll take me home I won't," said Pat, snatching through the rising clouds of dizziness at a straw of logic. "You're going to take me home, aren't you?" "Let me hear you say you hate me!" he demanded, rising again. The girl cringed away with a little whimper as he approached. "You hate me, don't you?" He twisted his hand again in her ebony hair, drawing her face back so that he stared down at it. "There's blood on your lips," he said as if gloating. "Blood on your lips!" He clutched her hair more tightly; abruptly he bent over her, pressing his mouth to hers. Her bruised lips burned with pain at the fierce pressure of his; she felt a sharp anguish at the impingement of his teeth. Yet the cloudy pall of dizziness about her was unbroken; she was too frightened and bewildered for resistance. "Blood on your lips!" he repeated exultingly. "Now is the beauty of evil!" "Nicholas," she said wearily, clinging desperately to a remnant of logic, "what do you want of me? Tell me what you want and then let me go home." "I want to show you the face of evil," he said. "I want you to know the glory of evil, the loveliness of supreme evil!" He dragged his chair around the table, placing it beside her. Seated, he drew her into his arms, where she lay passive, too limp and befuddled to resist. With a sudden movement, he turned her so that her back rested across his knees, her face gazing up into his. He 

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