"Of course she did"—he interrupted her—"She would ferret out any man she wanted for the moment. Forests could not hide him,—caves could not cover him if she made up her mind to find him. I had hoped she would not find ME—but she has—however,—you say she has gone—"
The colour had fled from Manella's face,—she was pale and rigid.
"She will come back," she said stiffly.
"I hope not!" And he threw himself carelessly down on the turf to rest—"Come and sit beside me here and tell me what she said to you!"
But Manella was silent. Her dark, passionate eyes rested upon him with a world of scorn and sorrow in their glowing depths.
"Come!" he repeated—"Don't stare at me as if I were some new sort of reptile!"
"I think you are!" she said, coldly—"You seem to be a man, but you have not the feelings of a man!"
"Oh, have I not!" and he gave a light gesture of indifference—"I have the feelings of a modern man,—the 'Kultur' of a perfect super-German! Yes, that is so! Sentiment is the mere fly-trap of sensuality—the feeler thrust out to scent the prey, but once the fly is caught, the trap closes. Do you understand? No, of course you don't! You are a dreadfully primitive woman!"
"I did not think you were German," she said.
"Nor did I!" and he laughed—"Nor am I. I said just now that I had the 'Kultur' of a super-German—and a super-German means something above every other male creature except himself. He cannot get away from himself—nor can I! That's the trouble! Come, obey me, Manella! Sit down here beside me!"