"You should," she said with a flick of anger. "Your castoff mistress."
"Castoff, hellfire! We terminated an association which—"
"Yes, yes. I've heard that line too. You warned me and so on. Go ahead, call yourself a gentleman."
"Maròn!" He sprang to his feet and paced the floor. She leaned back and watched him, breathing hard.
Eventually his temper cooled. "Margery," he said, "I think I know what Bruce meant to you. Besides being someone you cared for, I mean. He was your chance at emotional security, wasn't he? A home, children. Why don't you admit it, you'll always be the little girl from Ohio, and what's wrong with that? The average man will breed the unaverage one again, someday when the human race gets back its health. He has before. But these hipster types are a biological and cultural dead end.
"I can't build your house in Ohio for you. Forget me. Bruce was not your last chance, but if you sit on your tocus feeling sorry for yourself, he will have been. Get the devil out of this hole!"
"Thanks for the counsel," she said. It fell flatly on his ears. The rising fury tinted her and tensed her; she spoke through jaws held stiff. "So much cheaper than help, isn't it? But it happens I choose to stay home tonight. Alone. Starting at once."
Kintyre stopped in midstride. "I'm sorry," he said. "I'm not sure what I did wrong just now, but I'm sorry."
She slumped. "Please go away," she said without tone. "Call me tomorrow if you want, but please go away now."
"All right," he said.