It was true. She had been a beast of prey all her life. Now it was her turn to be overtaken and torn down. Only sentimentalists like Francey Wilmot could see in her a cause for pity or regret.
They sat opposite each other through a long silence. He gave her time. He showed her consideration. He thought of the pale-blue chauffeur waiting in the biting cold of a winter's afternoon. Well, he would be alive after she had become a loathsome fragment of corruption. He was revenged—they were all revenged on her now.
She fumbled with her gold and jewelled bag.
"What do I owe, Monsieur le docteur?"
"Three guineas."
She put the money on the table.
"That is ver' little for so much. I think—when I can't go on any more—I come to your 'ospital. You take me in, hein? I 'ave a fancy."
He made an unwilling movement. It revolted him—this obtuseness that would not see that he hated her.
"I can't prevent your coming if you want to. You would be more in your element in your own home. Even in their private rooms they don't allow the kind of things you're accustomed to. There are regulations. Your friends won't like them."
She looked up at him with a startled intentness.