She flushed angrily. His frankness now seemed to her to be flavored with impertinent assurance. "That's amusing," said she, with an unpleasant smile. "You have an extraordinary opinion of yourself, haven't you?"
He shrugged his shoulders as if the subject did not interest him and set off at a gait that compelled her horse to a rapid walk. She said presently:
"I'm going to live at the old place alone for the present. You'll come to see me?"
He looked at her. "No," he said. "As I told you a moment ago, that's over. You'll have to find some one else to amuse you—for, I understand perfectly, Jane, that you were only doing what's called flirting. That sort of thing is a waste of time—for me. I'm not competent to judge whether it's a waste for you."
She looked coldly down at him. "You have changed since I last saw you," she said. "I don't mean the change in your manner toward me. I mean something deeper. I've often heard that politics makes a man deteriorate. You must be careful, Victor."
"I must think about that," said he. "Thank you for warning me."
His prompt acceptance of her insincere criticism made her straightway repentant. "No, it's I that have changed," she said. "Oh, I'm horrid!—simply horrid. I'm in despair about myself."
"Any one who thinks about himself is bound to be," said he philosophically. "That's why one has to keep busy in order to keep contented." He halted. "I can save a mile and half an hour by crossing these fields." He held the wounded bird in one hand very carefully while he lifted his hat.
She colored deeply. "Victor," she said, "isn't there any way that you and I can be friends?"
"Yes," replied he. "As I told you before, by becoming one of us. Those are impossible terms, of course. But that's the only way by which we could be of use to each other. Jane, if I, professing what I do profess, offered to be friends with you on any other terms, you'd be very foolish not to reject my offer. For, it would mean that I was a fraud. Don't you see that?"