“You don’t have to pretend with me. I’m sick of men without spine. At least, you’re a man.”
George slopped a little of the beer on the carpet. A surge of emotion crawled up his hack.
“What do you mean?” he asked, putting the glass on the mantelpiece. He tried to control the huskiness in his voice without success.
“You’ve lived dangerously. You’ve killed men, haven’t you? That means something to me.”
George faced her. There was nothing in her eyes now. They were like drawn curtains. He stared at her, suddenly afraid.
“Who told you?”
“I don’t have to be told. I’m not a fool. I know men. When Sydney told me about you, I thought you were one of those ghastly little miscarriages who boast about what they have done: who he, cheat, and brag because they haven’t the guts to live like men. But Sydney told me I was wrong. Even then I wouldn’t believe him He told me you had a gun, and I said you were lying.”
George found perspiration was running down his face. He took out his handkerchief and mopped himself. He realized that if he wanted her admiration—and he wanted that more than anything else in the world—he could not admit that he had been lying to Brant. He was caught in his own trap; but, oddly enough, he didn’t care. What possible harm could it do if he did pretend that he was a big-shot gangster? She wouldn’t tell the police about him. And just suppose she did? He could always say that he had been pulling her leg, and he could prove that he had never been out of the country. All right, if she thought he had lived dangerously, if she thought he had killed men, and if, knowing that, she admired him, he would give her the opportunity to admire him even more.
“I don’t talk about that side of my life,” he said, picking up his glass. “It only sounds like bragging; but if you really want to know… well, I Suppose I’ve had as exciting a life as most men.”
“Men are such liars,” she said calmly, leaning down to put her glass on the floor. “I still think you could be lying…”