He started up in a panic. And the fear in his eyes pleased her, at the same time that it made her wince.
She nodded slowly. "Yes, Rod—I'm leaving."
"I'll drop Constance," cried he. "I'll have her put out of the company."
"No—go on with her till you've got enough—or she has."
"I've got enough, this minute," declared he with convincing energy and passion. "You must know, dearest, that to me Constance—all the women I've ever seen—aren't worth your little finger. You're all that they are, and a whole lot more besides." He seized her in his arms. "You wouldn't leave me—you couldn't! You understand how men are—how they get these fits of craziness about a pair of eyes or a figure or some trick of voice or manner. But that doesn't affect the man's heart. I love you, Susan. I adore you."
She did not let him see how sincerely he had touched her. Her eyes were of their deepest violet, but he had never learned that sign. She smiled mockingly; the fingers that caressed his hair were trembling. "We've tided each other over, Rod. The play's a success. You're all right again—and so am I. Now's the time to part."
"Is it Brent, Susie?"
"I quit him last week."
"There's no one else. You're going because of Constance!"
She did not deny. "You're free and so am I," said she practically. "I'm going. So—let's part sensibly. Don't make a silly scene."