Her composure forsook her for the moment and she bit her lip cruelly.
“Don’t!” she whispered. “I am not to blame. I never dreamed it would go so far! Why should people––”
“Why?” he interposed, ironically.
Susan pulled herself together. “Yes, why?” she repeated, defiantly. “Can women prevent men from making fools of themselves any more than they can prevent them from amusing themselves as they will? To-day it is this toy; to-morrow, another. At length”––bitterly––“a woman comes to consider herself only a toy.”
Her companion regarded her curiously. “Well, well!” he ejaculated, finally. “Losing at cards doesn’t agree with your temper.”
“Nor being worsted by Saint-Prosper with yours!” she retorted quickly.
Mauville looked virulent, but Susan, feeling that she had retaliated in ample measure, recovered her usual equanimity of temper and placed a conciliatory hand sympathetically on his arm.
“We have both had a good deal to try us, haven’t we? But how stupid men are!” she added suddenly. “As if you could not find other consolation!”
He directed toward her an inquiring glance.