"And I?" she said with tremendous life. "What is to become of me, Victor?"
He laughed quietly. "You are going to keep away from me—find some one else to amuse your leisure. That's what's going to become of you, Jane Hastings."
She winced and quivered again. "That—hurts," she said.
"Your vanity? Yes. I suppose it does. But those wounds are healthful—when the person is as sensible as you are."
"You think I am not capable of caring! You think I am vain and shallow and idle. You refuse me all right to live, simply because I happen to live in surroundings you don't approve of."
"I'm not such an egotistical ass as to imagine a woman of your sort could be genuinely in love with a man of my sort," replied he. "So, I'll see to it that we keep away from each other. I don't wish to be tempted to do you mischief."
She looked at him inquiringly.
But he did not explain. He said: "And you are going now. And we shall not meet again except by accident."
She gave a sigh of hopelessness. "I suppose I have lowered myself in your eyes by being so frank—by showing and speaking what I felt," she said mournfully.
"Not in the least," rejoined he. "A man who is anybody or has anything soon gets used to frankness in women. I could hardly have gotten past thirty, in a more or less conspicuous position, without having had some experience.... and without learning not to attach too much importance to—to frankness in women."