“What do you know—or care—about Mary?” he said heavily; “you never even liked her.”
“Your wife bored me, but I admired her. Women nearly always bore me, but I believe in them far more than men, and wish to uphold them.”
“You chose a funny way of doing so this time,” he said, dropping into his chair with a hopeless sigh.
She looked at him with distaste. “True, I mistook the situation. Conventions are nothing to me. But I have a spiritual code to which I adhere. This affair no longer harmonizes with it. I trust—” Felicity relaxed into her cushions—“you will return to your wife immediately.”
“Thanks,” he said ironically. “But you're too late. Mary knows, and has thrown me over.”
There was silence for several minutes. Then Stefan rose, picked up the draft from the floor, looked at it idly, refolded it into Mary's letter, and put both carefully away in his inside pocket. His face was very pale.
“Adieu, Felicity,” he said quietly. “You are quite right about it.” And he held out his hand.
“Adieu, Stefan,” she answered, waving her hand toward his, but not touching it. “I am sorry about your wife.”
Turning, he went in through the French window.
Felicity waited until she heard the thud of the apartment door, then struck her hands together. Yo San appeared.