"I never loved you," she answered, her words clear-cut, cold as steel. "I never loved you. Once, it is true, I fancied that you were such a man as I could have loved. But that passed. I did not know you in those days. I know you now."
"And hate me for what you know?" he said.
"No," she answered. "I do not even hate you."
"What then?" he gibed. "You are—sorry for me perhaps?"
"No!" Very distinct and steady came her reply. "I only despise you now."
"What?" he said.
"I despise you," she repeated slowly, "knowing what you might be, and knowing—what you are."
The words passed out in silence—a silence so tense that it seemed as if the world itself had stopped. Through it after many seconds came Nap's voice, so softly that it scarcely seemed to break it.
"It is not always wise to despise an enemy, Lady Carfax—especially if you chance to be in that enemy's power."
She did not deign to answer; but her gaze did not flinch from his, nor did her pride waver.