"So I did," he answered. "So I do—just the same as you. Our impulses, our reasons for going off together, were exactly the same, only I’m honest about it and you’re not. You pretend to be heart-broken because I don’t care for you any longer, when, as a matter of fact, you don’t care a bit more for me. You’re an utter hypocrite!"
She was confused and crushed by his words. He was taking away from her her very last support—her conviction that she had been misled, wronged, sinned against. Somehow he was putting her in the wrong. She couldn’t deny that she had gone away with him of her own free will; and yet she knew that it hadn’t been her own free will. She didn’t deny her own guilt, but she knew that his was far greater.
"I’m not a hypocrite," she said.
"Then you’re a fool. No—we’ve done with each other, Angelica. It’s over for both of us."
"But it isn’t over for me!" she cried. Her heart was flaming with resentment against the hellish injustice of it—that she should have all the suffering, all the punishment. "Just think of it!" she cried. "Can’t you realize, Vincent, how dreadful it is for me?"
"No, I can’t realize. I’m not a woman, and I don’t pretend to understand them and their fine feelings. I can’t understand or sympathize with this cowardly whining over physical effects which are known to every one. Did you want anything else from me, except money, Angelica?"
"Yes, I do!" she answered. "I do want something else, and I’ll get it, too. I want to make you suffer, and I will, too!"
"Oh, I see—the wronged woman with the baby in her arms! Well, Angelica, go ahead! Do your worst. I don’t think you can hurt me very much."
He looked down at her with a gay, mocking smile, he put on his hat, and was gone.
Angelica went back to her mother with the wallet.