“I mean that I shall,” said Helena passionately. “He is the only man that I have ever really wanted, and I intend to have him.”
“It’s a damned dishonorable thing to do.”
“I don’t care. Honor’s nothing but an arbitrary thing, anyhow. I’ll have what I want. It wasn’t necessary for me to tell you this, but it does me good to say it to somebody.”
“And you don’t care whether I am hurt or not—nor that poor girl?”
“Oh, I don’t believe I do. I wish I did. I feel so wicked—but I can’t. I can’t care for anything else. You didn’t love me very much, anyhow. You are merely in love with me.”
“You never gave me the chance. I have barely kissed you. I had hoped that after a while, after we were married, it might be different. You have fully made up your mind?”
“All the mind I’ve got is in it.”
“Then I don’t see that there’s anything for me to do but go. I can’t hang round here. I’ll have a sudden telegram calling me to New York. Will you shake hands?”
She came forward and gave him her hand. “Have I been unfair?” she asked, smiling. “I didn’t have time to write, and at least I didn’t break it off by telephone, as I did with one of them.”
“You have behaved with the utmost consideration,” said Van Rhuys dryly. He looked at her a moment. “Suppose you fail?” he asked.