She paused a moment, and then said, without any change of voice—
"I was thinking of throwing myself in."
Their eyes met—his, foolhardy, inquisitive, not unkindly; hers, sombre, sinister, darkened.
The recklessness in both of them rushed out and joined hands.
He laughed lightly.
"No, no," he said, "sweet Annette—lovely Annette. The Seine is not for you. So you have quarrelled with Falconhurst already. He has managed very badly. Or did you find out that he was going to be married? I knew it, but I did not say. Never mind. If he is, it doesn't matter. And if he isn't, it doesn't matter. Nothing matters."
"You are right. Nothing matters," said Annette. Her face, always pale, had become livid.
His became suddenly alert, flushed, as hers paled. He sighted a possible adventure. Excitement blazed up in his light eyes.
"One tear," he said, "yes,—you may shed one tear. But the Seine! No. The Seine is made up of all the tears which women have shed for men—men of no account, worthless wretches like Falconhurst and me. You must not add to that great flood. Leave off looking at the water, Annette. It is not safe for you to look at it. Look at me instead. And listen to what I am saying. You are not listening."