"You seem to forget Cortlandt," he said, dully.
She gave a scornful laugh. "You needn't bring Stephen in. He doesn't count. I doubt if he'd even care. Our marriage amounts to nothing—nothing. You'd better consider ME, and the sacrifice I'm willing to make."
"I'm not going to listen to you," he cried. "I suppose I've been a fool, but this must end right here."
"You can't marry that girl," she reiterated, hysterically. She was half sobbing again, but not with the weakness of a woman; her grief was more like that of a despairing man.
"For Heaven's sake, pull yourself together," said Kirk. "You have servants. I—I don't know what to say. I want to get out, I want to think it over. I'm—dreadfully sorry. That's all I can seem to think about now." He turned and went blindly to the door, leaving her without a look behind.
When he had gone she drew off her riding-gloves, removed her hat, and dropped them both upon the nearest chair, then crept wearily up the stairs to her room.
A moment later the latticed wooden blinds at the end of the parlor swung open, and through the front window stepped Stephen Cortlandt. Behind him was a hammock swung in the coolest part of the balcony. The pupils of his eyes, ordinarily so dead and expressionless, were distended like those of a man under the influence of a drug or suffering from a violent headache. He listened attentively for an instant, his head on one side, then, hearing footsteps approaching from the rear of the house, he strolled into the hall.
A maid appeared with a tray, a glass, and a bottle. "I could not find the aspirin," she said, "but I brought you some absinthe. It will deaden the pain, sir."
He thanked her and with shaking fingers poured the glass full, then drank it off like so much water.
"You're not going out again in the heat, sir?"