He released her hand. "AN answer," he said, "but not the correct answer." He eyed her thoughtfully. "You have done me a great service," he went on. "You have shown me an unsuspected, a dangerous weakness in myself. At another time—and coming in another way, I might have made a mess of my career—and of the things that have been entrusted to me." A long pause, then he added, to himself rather than to her, "I must look out for that. I must do something about it."
Jane turned toward him and settled herself in a resolute attitude and with a resolute expression. "Victor," she said, "I've listened to you very patiently. Now I want you to listen to me. What is the truth about us? Why, that we are as if we had been made for each other. I don't know as much as you do. I've led a much narrower life. I've been absurdly mis-educated. But as soon as I saw you I felt that I had found the man I was looking for. And I believe—I feel—I KNOW you were drawn to me in the same way. Isn't that so?"
"You—fascinated me," confessed he. "You—or your clothes—or your perfume."
"Explain it as you like," said she. "The fact remains that we were drawn together. Well—Victor, I am not afraid to face the future, as fate maps it out for us. Are you?"
He did not answer.
"You—AFRAID," she went on. "No—you couldn't be afraid."
A long silence. Then he said abruptly: "IF we loved each other. But I know that we don't. I know that you would hate me when you realized that you couldn't move me. And I know that I should soon get over the infatuation for you. As soon as it became a question of sympathies—common tastes—congeniality—I'd find you hopelessly lacking."
She felt that he was contrasting her with some one else—with a certain some one. And she veiled her eyes to hide their blazing jealousy. A movement on his part made her raise them in sudden alarm. He had risen. His expression told her that the battle was lost—for the day. Never had she loved him as at that moment, and never had longing to possess him so dominated her willful, self-indulgent, spoiled nature. Yet she hated him, too; she longed to crush him, to make him suffer—to repay him with interest for the suffering he was inflicting upon her—the humiliation. But she dared not show her feelings. It would be idle to try upon this man any of the coquetries indicated for such cases—to dismiss him coldly, or to make an appeal through an exhibition of weakness or reckless passion.
"You will see the truth, for yourself, as you think things over," said he.
She rose, stood before him with downcast eyes, with mouth sad and sweet. "No," she said, "It's you who are hiding the truth from yourself. I hope—for both our sakes—that you'll see it before long. Good-by—dear." She stretched out her hand.