"You admit that you love him, you——"
He checked himself on the first hissing breath of the foul epithet. She said tranquilly:
"Jealousy doesn't mean love. We're jealous in all sorts of ways—and of all sorts of things."
"Well—he cares nothing about you."
"Nothing."
"And never will. He'd despise a woman who had been——"
"Don't hesitate. Say it. I'm used to hearing it, Freddie—and to being it. And not 'had been' but 'is.' I still am, you know."
"You're not!" he cried. "And never were—and never could be—for some unknown reason, God knows why."
She shrugged her shoulders, lit another cigarette. He went on:
"You can't get it out of your head that because he's interested in you he's more or less stuck on you. That's the way with women. The truth is, he wants you merely to act in his plays."