“It’s a pity you haven’t a lover, Jane,” he said.
She had walked over to the window, and his speech, purposely a trifle cruel and insulting, did not make her turn.
“You’re angry,” she said. “You’d better go home. I’m not in good humor myself.”
At which he laughed his murmuring, musical laugh and prepared to leave her.
“I have a great deal of courage,” he said, getting into his coat, “to bring a wild-cat here, chain her up, and tease her—eh?”
“You think you have me chained?” Her tone was enraged and scornful. “I can snap your flimsy little tether and go.”
She wheeled upon him. She looked tall and fierce and free.
“No, no,” he cried with deprecating voice and gesture. “You are making Mr. Luck’s fortune and mine, not to mention your own. You mustn’t break your chains. Get used to them. We all have to, you know. It’s much the best method.”
“I shall never get used to this life, never. It just—somehow—isn’t mine.”
“Perhaps when you meet Mr. Luck, he’ll be able to reconcile you.”