He laughed back. They had both passed the stage in which the truth has power to hurt.
“I remember Mr. Gunther talking to me a little as you have been doing,” she recalled, “when he came to model me. I don't quite understand either of you. I think you're just foolishly prejudiced in my favor because you admire me.”
“What about the Farradays, and Constance, and the Sparrow and Lily and Henrik and McEwan and the Havens and Madame Corriani and—”
“Oh, stop!” she laughed, covering his mouth with her hand.
“And even in Paris,” he concluded, holding the hand, “Adolph, and—yes, and Felicity Berber. Are they all 'prejudiced in your favor'?”
“Why do you include the last named?” she asked, rather low. It was the first time Felicity had been spoken of between them.
“She threw me over, Mary, the hour she discovered how it was with you,” he said quietly.
“That was rather decent of her. I'm glad you told me that,” she answered after a pause.
“All this brings me to what I really want to say,” he continued, still holding her hand in his. “You are so alive, you are life; and yet you're chained to a half-dead man.”
“Oh, don't, dearest,” she whispered, deeply distressed.