"Oh, no, not at all. I haven't seen Cort for some time. It's about—about the General."
"General Bent?" Jeff gave a quick sigh, paced across the room, and then turned with a frown. "I'm not interested in General Bent," he muttered. "For me he has stopped being a person. He's only a piece of machinery—a steel octopus that's slowly crushing me to bits. I'd rather not talk of General Bent."
"Is it as bad as that?" she murmured, awe-stricken.
"Yes—they've pushed me to the wall. I'm still fighting, but unless I compromise or sell the mine——" he stopped and straightened his great frame. "Camilla, don't let's talk of this. I know you're tired. I won't stay long. Just tell me what you mean about going back to Abilene."
She clasped her hands nervously, glad of the chance to postpone her revelation, which seemed to grow more difficult with each moment.
"I can't stand the life I'm living, Jeff. I can't take any more from you. I've done it all spring because you wanted me to, but I can't live a lie any longer. Those rooms, that luxury, the servants, the people about me, they oppressed me and bore me to the earth. I have no right to them—still less now that things are going badly with you. You wanted me to keep the place we'd made—to make a larger place for your name in New York. I hope I've made it, but it has cost me something. I'm sick of ambition, of the soulless striving, the emptiness of it all. I can't do it any longer. I must go somewhere where I can be myself, where I don't have to knuckle to people I despise, where I don't have to climb, climb, climb—my ears deaf to the sneers and the envy of the scandal-mongers, and open only for the flattery which soothes my self-esteem but not—no, nothing can soothe the ache at the heart."
"What has happened, Camilla? I understood you had made many new friends."
"Yes, some new friends—also, some new enemies. But that hasn't bothered me. It's the lying I had to do—about you—the excuses I have had to make for being alone, the dates I have set for your return, lies—all lies—when I knew you were not going to return, that you had deserted me and left me only your money as a bribe. I couldn't do it any longer. I wrote you all this. You thought I didn't mean what I said—because I had your money—your merciless money, to gratify my pride in my pretty body. It has come to the point where your money is an insult—as much of an insult as the dishonor you put on me."
"Dishonor? I can't have you associate that name with Mrs. Cheyne," he blurted forth.
She smiled and then gave a hard, dry, little unmirthful laugh.