They all got out at Maastricht, where the lantern-lit platform was thronged with soldiers; and, when the train started, the two were alone together once more.
They had been seated side by side when the officers were occupying the compartment; they remained so when the train rolled out of the station, neither offering to move, perhaps not thinking to move.
Karen's Tauchnitz novel lay open on her lap, her eyes brooded over the pages, but the light was very dim and presently she lay back, resting her arm on the upholstered window ledge.
Guild had been sitting so very still beside her that she suspected he was asleep. And when she was sure of it she permitted herself closer scrutiny of his features than she had ever ventured.
Curiosity was uppermost. To inspect at her leisure a man who had so stirred, so dominated, so ruled and misruled her was most interesting.
He looked very boyish, she thought, as he lay there--very clear cut and yellow-haired--very kind--except for the rather square contour of the chin. But the mouth had relaxed from its sternly quiet curve into pleasant lines.
One hand lay on his knees; it was clenched; the other rested inert on the cushioned seat beside her, listless, harmless.
Was that the hand of iron that had closed around her shoulders, pinning both her arms helpless? Were these the hands that had mastered her without effort--the hands which had taken what they chose to take, gently violent, unhurried, methodical and inexorable?
How was it that her swift hatred had not endured in the wake of this insolent outrage? Never before had a hand been laid on her in violence--not even in reproof. How was it that she had endured this? Every womanly instinct had been outraged. How was it that she was enduring it still?--acquiescing in this man's presence here in the same compartment with her--close beside her? She had resented the humiliation. She resented it still, fiercely--when she remembered it. Why didn't she remember it more frequently? Why didn't she think of it every time she looked at him? What was the trouble with her anger that she seemed to forget so often that she had ever been angry?
Was she spiritless? Had his violence then crippled her pride forever? Was this endurance, this submission, this tacit condoning of an unforgivable offense to continue?