"You have got me cornered, Simmy," she said, her lip trembling. There was a hunted look in her eyes. "I—I don't know what I should do. I want him, Simmy,—I want my man, my husband, but to be perfectly honest with you, I don't believe he has sunk low enough yet for me to claim the complete victory I desire."
"Victory?" gasped Simmy. "Do you want to pick him out of the gutter? Is that your idea of triumph over the Tresslyns? Are you—"
"When the time comes, Simmy," said she cryptically, "I will hold out my hand to him, and then we'll have a real man before you can say Jack Robinson. He will come up like a cork, and he'll be so happy that he'll stay up forever."
"Don't be too sure of that. I've seen better men than George stay down forever."
"Yes, but George doesn't want to stay down. He wants me. That's all he wants in this world."
"Do you imagine that he will come to you, crawling on his knees, to plead for forgiveness or—"
"By no means! He'd never sink so low as that. That's why I tell you that he is a man, a real man. There isn't one in a thousand who wouldn't be begging, and whining, and even threatening the woman if he were in George's position. That's why I'm so sure."
"What do you expect?"
"When his face grows a little thinner, and the Tresslyn in him is drowned, I expect to ask him to come and see me," she said slowly.
"Good Lord!" muttered Simmy.