“No. It's over, Marie. I wanted to know where you were, that's all; to see that you were comfortable and not frightened. You're a silly child to think of the police.”
Marie put a hand to her throat.
“It is the American, of course.”
“Yes.”
She staggered a trifle, recovered, threw up her head. “Then I wish I had killed her!”
No man ever violently resents the passionate hate of one woman for her rival in his affections. Stewart, finding the situation in hand and Marie only feebly formidable, was rather amused and flattered by the honest fury in her voice. The mouse was under his paw; he would play a bit. “You'll get over feeling that way, kid. You don't really love me.”
“You were my God, that is all.”
“Will you let me help you—money, I mean?”
“Keep it for her.”
“Peter will be here in a minute.” He bent over the table and eyed her with his old, half-bullying, half-playful manner. “Come round here and kiss me for old times.”