She looked at me queerly.
“Can I never convince you that I'm just a woman?” said she mockingly. “Just a woman, and one a man with your ideas of women would fly from.”
“I wish you were!” I exclaimed. “Then—I'd not find it so—so impossible to give you up.”
She rose and made a slow tour of the room, halting on the rug before the closed fireplace a few feet from me. I sat looking at her.
“I am going to give you up,” I said at last.
Her eyes, staring into vacancy, grew larger and intenser with each long, deep breath she took.
“I didn't intend to say what I'm about to say—at least, not this evening,” I went on, and to me it seemed to be some other than myself who was speaking. “Certain things happened down town to-day that have set me to thinking. And—I shall do whatever I can for your brother and your father. But you—you are free!”
She went to the table, stood there in profile to me, straight and slender as a sunflower stalk. She traced the silver chasings in the lid of the cigarette box with her forefinger; then she took a cigarette and began rolling it slowly and absently.
“Please don't scent and stain your fingers with that filthy tobacco,” said I rather harshly.
“And only this afternoon you were saying you had become reconciled to my vice—that you had canonized it along with me—wasn't that your phrase?” This indifferently, without turning toward me, and as if she were thinking of something else.