"Well, I was once in love with her," he said bluntly.
She made an indifferent gesture.
"And now I hate her," he added with a sharp intonation.
"Is that the ordinary end of your romances?" she questioned without interest.
"It wasn't romance," he replied bitterly; "it was hell."
Again she caught the note of satiety in his voice, and it stirred her to a feeling of sympathy which she despised in herself.
"At least you worked out your own damnation," she returned coolly.
"One usually does," he admitted. "That's the infernal part of it. But I'm out of it now," he pursued with an egoism which rejoiced in its own strength. "I'm out of it now with a whole skin and I hope to keep decent even if I don't get to heaven. You might not think it," he concluded gravely, "but I'm at bottom as religious a chap as old John Knox."
"You may be," she observed without enthusiasm, "but it's the kind of religion which impresses me not at all."
"Well, it might have been better," he said, "but I never had a chance. I've known such devilish women all my life."