‘Did she die?’
‘Die? Not much,’ says Crosby cheerfully. ‘Though of course’—relapsing into very suspicious gloom—‘she was dead to me. She’—with deep melancholy—‘thought I couldn’t furnish a house up to her form, so she threw me over.’
‘What an odious girl!’ says Susan. For the first time a spark of sorrow for him lights her eyes. She flushes softly with most genuine indignation. Crosby looks at her.
‘She was a very pretty girl,’ says he.
‘For all that’—quickly—‘you must hate her.’
‘On the contrary, I think I love her.’
‘Still?’
Susan’s face grows disdainful.
‘Even more than ever I did.’
‘You are very constant.’