Her eyes had the expression a man least likes to see in a woman's when she is looking at him. "Don't you?" said she.
He reddened, and his eyes shifted. Presently he said humbly, "I—I am sorry for what I did. I was crazy with jealousy. I'm not myself—not at all."
She felt the truth of this at once. "And I'm sorry for the things I said to you and to him. I was crazy with rage."
He lifted his head eagerly. "I knew you didn't mean them, dear."
Her brow darkened. It was annoying that the man couldn't realize; for such as she now knew him to be to aspire to her seemed impertinence. "Basil," she said, "it's all over between us. Don't let your vanity deceive you. And don't force me to tell you what I think of you. Be content with knowing what I don't think."
"Be careful!" he cried angrily. "I'm not the man to stand and beg—even for you."
"That's good," said she pleasantly. "Then—we can part here and now." She glanced up at the windows of the apartment. "You've got your traps up there still. Hadn't you better let me send Jimmie to help you pack them?"
"Thank you," replied he, haughtily. "I'll be obliged if you will."
She put out her hand. "Good-by, Basil."
He clinched his fists in vanity's boyish anger. "You can think of that apartment, and have no feeling?" he exclaimed.