"That was my mistake. I was so sure of myself that I didn't think it necessary to be sure of you." And while Jeff was trying to understand what she meant, she went on:
"Those were not my kisses. They were impersonal—and might have been given to any woman—that is, any woman who would allow them. Each of them a separate insult—Judas kisses—treacherous kisses—kisses of retaliation—of revenge——"
"What on earth are you talking about?"
"You've been using me to square your accounts with your wife—that's all," scornfully. "As if you didn't know."
He flushed crimson and bit his lips. "That's not true," he muttered. "What does it matter to my wife? Why should she care who I kiss—or why?"
"It doesn't matter to her, I suppose," she said, slightly ironical; "she is her own mistress again, but it does to you. Curiously enough you're still in love with your wife. She's in love with somebody else. Naturally it wounds your self-esteem—that precious self-esteem of yours that's more stupendous than the mountain above you. She hurts you, and you come running to me for the liniment. Thanks! You've come to the wrong shop, Mr. Wray."
Jeff's brows darkened. He opened his mouth as though to speak, but thought better of it. As Rita Cheyne took up the bridle of her horse and led him to a rock that she might mount, Jeff interfered.
"One moment, Rita. I think we'd better have this thing out. I'm beginning to understand better the width of the breach between us—it's widened some to-day—and I don't believe you're going to try to make it up to-morrow. I'm sorry, but I'm not going to have any more misunderstandings, either. I want you to forgive me if you can. I've cared for you a good deal—enough to make me sorry you were only fooling. Things don't seem to be going my way, and I've had lot of thinking to do that hasn't made me any too cheerful. I don't seem to see things just the way I did. This fight has made me bitter. I've got everything against me—your world, the organized forces of your world against a rank outsider. I belong to the people who work with their hands. I've always been pretty proud of that. I went East and mixed up with a lot of your kind of people. I had a good time. They asked me to their houses, gave me their wine and food. They knew what they were about. They had need of me, but no matter what they said or did they never for a moment let me forget what I'd come from. You were the only one of all that crowd who tried to make me feel differently. Was it any wonder that I was grateful for it?"
"Your gratitude takes a curious form."
He held up a hand in protest.