"Yes, I forgave you then. But not now. I can't forgive you now. No man ever kissed a woman the way you kissed me unless he is mad about her—or despises her."
"Despises——"
"Yes. You might as well ask me to forgive you for murdering my brother. You've killed something inside me—my pride, I think. I can never—never forget that."
She got up and turned her back to him, fingering for her handkerchief. She had none. He slowly undid the kerchief from around his own neck and put it in her hand.
"Don't cry, Rita."
"Cry?" She wheeled around, still staunching her tears. "No, I'll not cry. I was a fool to cry. I'll not cry any more. I cried because—because I was disappointed—that any one I trusted could be so base."
"I'm not so dreadful as all that. You must admit——"
"I'll admit nothing—except that I made a mistake, too. It hasn't been a pleasant awakening. I know now what those kisses meant."
Wray's incomprehension was deeper.
"I wish I did," he said. "I was sure they wouldn't do you any harm. You wouldn't have been so frank with me if you hadn't been pretty sure of yourself."