In vain she marshalled the
damning facts against him. She tried to remember only the expression of
murderous hate she had seen on his face the night that her predecessor,
the other K-19, had been murdered. She tried to think of him only as a
treacherous spy, an enemy of her country forever plotting to destroy
Americans, yet she could not. However base and treacherous and low her
reason told her Frederic Hoff must be, her refractory heart persisted in
beating faster at the prospect of his coming.
Hitherto not much given to self-analysis, she now found herself
wondering at herself. What could be the matter with her? Why must she
love this rascal? Why could she not fall in love with some decent,
clean, patriotic young American, with some man like Thomas Dean?
Chauffeur though he was now pretending to be, she knew that he was a
college man, well-bred, and traveled. She knew, too, that Dean was in
love with her. For him she had a sincere liking, great admiration even,
and toward him now she was experiencing that feeling of sympathy a woman
always has for the man she cannot love. But her feeling toward Dean, she
classified as only that of friendship, nothing at all like the
passionate affection that was rapidly drawing her closer and closer
to Hoff.
Dared she see him now? Might not her love for him overcome her high
desire to be of service to her country? Might she not be led by her
unruly heart into betraying to him the fact that he was in the most
imminent peril?
Yet she must see him, she told herself.
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