"I don't. But you admitted yourself, he must at least seem a decent man, or the scheme would fail. No decent man——"
"Some smart actor who fancies himself, and dreams of having his own New York theatre," cried Severance, inspired. "With a million dollars——"
"He'd want me to stay on the stage and star with him——"
"Well, then, some inventor who'd sell his soul to have his invention taken up. A million dol——"
The phrase called back an echo in the girl's mind. "I'd sell my soul!" What man had used those words to her that day—an hour ago?...
Marise laughed out aloud. "An inventor!" she exclaimed. "Oh, it's easy to generalise—to suggest someone—anyone—vaguely, in a world of men. But if I should name one—if I should say, 'Here's the man,' you would shudder. The thought of him in flesh and blood as my husband—dummy or no dummy—would drive you mad—if you really love me."
"I wouldn't let it drive me mad," Severance swore. "I'd control myself—and control the man, too."
"You would? Suppose I name your bête noire, Major John Garth?"
Severance withered visibly. "Garth wouldn't do it," he stammered.
"There you are!" sneered Marise. But she began to experience a very extraordinary sensation. It was composed of obstinacy, anger, vanity, recklessness, resentment, and several fierce sub-emotions, none of which she made the slightest effort to analyse. Tony Severance believed that his passion for her excused everything, because he thought it stronger than any other man living had ever felt. But there was another man, one at least—who thought and said the same thing of himself.