"Why do I care for him?" she cried passionately. "What is he to me? A middle-class Englishman, with an Englishman's tastes and desires, an Englishman with the morality of his class. Just a plain, stupid, uninteresting bourgeois, a specimen of the self-satisfied Puritan."
"You found him vastly interesting though."
"Yes, but why should I? Why do I care what becomes of him? He is nothing to me."
"He can be something to you though, Countess; you are a beautiful, fascinating woman. You can appeal to every man's weaknesses, no matter what they are. With time and opportunity no man can resist you. Say the word, and I will give you these opportunities."
"You mean——?"
"That I want him to be yours. You want him, and I owe you at least this."
"You have some other purpose."
"And if I have, what then? He will be yours, body and soul. Tell me, are you still in love with him?"
The woman walked to the window, and looked out on the tide of human traffic in Piccadilly. For some time she seemed to be lost in thought, then she burst out passionately.
"I am angry whenever I think of him. He was as cold as an icicle; I was like a woman pleading with a stone. Something seemed to stand between us—something—I don't know what."