She shook her head. “I’m bad,” she said softly; “I thought I could find the happiness I wanted with you, but I haven’t. I must live my life. I have not the courage to pretend. You wouldn’t want me to pretend, would you?”
“Why do you say you’re bad? Is it because there is someone else?”
She hesitated a moment, then she said: “Yes, yes. I didn’t want to tell you, but I must. You are bound to hear sooner or later.”
With the morbid interest of a lounger at a street accident, Mandell watched the big man dispassionately. He noticed that he had suddenly gone very pale and it was only with difficulty that he controlled himself.
“I see,” he said.
“No,” she said quickly, “you don’t. You couldn’t possibly. You are thinking that I have wounded your pride. I know how men feel when this happens. But it won’t wound your pride. I’m so glad about that because you have been so very sweet to me. You have, and I have appreciated—”
“Please,” he said, “don’t talk like that. You are making my love sound like a donation to a hospital. It wasn’t like that. I gave you everything, and I suppose it just wasn’t enough.”
Mandell saw her flinch and he raised his eyebrows approvingly. He thought this big guy was taking it lying down. What this dame wanted was fireworks. He sniffed contemptuously. All this talk about fairyland and frayed edges—it was just so much crap.
“I’m going away with Margaret Whitely,” she said quietly.
The big man’s colour came back, making his face congested. “Who?” he said, staring at her.