"Love! Why, Kitten, you don't know what the word means. When women like that love, it's like a prairie fire. A white fire that sweeps everything clean."
"'A white fire that sweeps everything clean!' A white prairie fire," muttered The Kitten. "You fool! You poor, blind fool. Do you think I'm going to stand by and never say a word? Do you think 'the white prairie fire'—oh, Lord, what a figure!—would love you if she knew? Why, she wouldn't even kiss you if she thought you'd held another woman in your arms—the great pink-and-yellow baby! And Vicky knows. He has always known. They all know. Vicky will let me go. I am willing. I am not ashamed. I——" She felt blindly before her as if she were picking the words from air.
Herrick moved beyond reach. "Listen to me. There is no question of whether people know or don't know. You're talking like a lunatic. There never was a question of whether Vicky would free you or not. We loved each other once and now it's over. That's all there is to it."
Herrick was thankful for the fine wrinkles, for all the small dried ugliness that made it easy.
The Kitten swayed, steadied herself, and said quietly:
"You will have to marry her." She stated it as a simple fact that Herrick might have forgotten. The inference of its judgment infuriated him.
"From women like Jean one does not ask, does not want, anything less."
Long afterwards he envied The Kitten her moment's strength.
"Will you go?" she said.