When Clifford reëntered the room fifteen minutes later, Mary was lying face downward on the couch, her whole figure taut. She heard him come in, and at once spoke, not changing her posture:—
“You’ve been talking all this while?”
“We spoke for only a few minutes. The rest of the time I’ve been sitting in there, thinking.” Then, with a savage burst: “I wouldn’t have let Morton use me, only I wanted to see you again!”
“What did he say?”
“He told me to settle with you on any reasonable terms.” Clifford stopped and waited, but she did not speak. “Want to know what he might possibly give?” he demanded.
“What else did he say?” she asked, not moving.
“A lot of things—to the general effect that you were a damned decent, square little sport.”
She made no response to this.
“Why did you accept the position he put you in, of being Jack’s mistress?” he burst out roughly.
“I could not help myself—unless I wanted to ruin everything.”