"Jeff," she said, "I've a confession to make. You know what it is, because you're cleverer than you have any right to be. I don't love you really, you know, and I'm pretty sure it isn't in me to love any one—except myself. It has always made me furious to think that I couldn't do anything with you. From the first I set my heart on having you for myself, not because I wanted to laugh at you—I couldn't have done that—but because you were in love with your wife."
"Why—do you hate her so?"
"I don't. I don't hate any one. But she irritated me. She was so self-satisfied, so genuine, so handsome—three things which I am not." She waited for him to contradict her, but Jeff was frowning at vacancy.
"Just to satisfy my self-esteem—which is almost as great as yours, Jeff Wray—I would have moved mountains to win, and I even let you drag my pride in the dust before I discovered that I couldn't. I die pretty hard, but I know when I'm dead."
"Don't, Rita; you and I are going to be better friends than ever."
"No, Jeff, I'm going East to-morrow. I don't want to see you. To see you would be to remind me of my insufficiencies."
"You've made a friend."
"No," shaking her head, "that won't do. It never does. I may have tried to deceive you, but I know better. Friendship is masculine—or it's feminine. It can't be both. I'm going away at once. I'm not going to see you again."
"Oh, yes, you are. To-morrow we'll——"
"No. I'd go to-night if there was a train. I want you to do one thing for me, though. Will you?"