A rustling of leaves, a step thrilled Joan out of her meditation.
Suddenly she was seized from behind, and Jim Cleve showed that
though he might be a joyous and grateful lover, he certainly would
never be an actor. For if he desired to live over again that fatal
meeting and quarrel which had sent them out to the border, he failed
utterly in his part. There was possession in the gentle grasp of his
arms and bliss in the trembling of his lips.
"Jim, you never did it that way!" laughed Joan. "If you had--do you
think I could ever have been furious?"
Jim in turn laughed happily. "Joan, that's exactly the way I stole
upon you and mauled you!".
"You think so! Well, I happen to remember. Now you sit here and make
believe you are Joan. And let me be Jim Cleve! ... I'll show you!"
Joan stole away in the darkness, and noiselessly as a shadow she
stole back--to enact that violent scene as it lived in her memory.
Jim was breathless, speechless, choked.
"That's how you treated me," she said.
"I--I don't believe I could have--been such a--a bear!" panted Jim.
"But you were. And consider--I've not half your strength."
"Then all I say is--you did right to drive me off. ... Only you
should never have trailed me out to the border."
"Ah! ... But, Jim, in my fury I discovered my love!"