"I must answer," he said. "I don't want to pretend; I'm not good at lying. I can't go through with any such arrangement as you suggested. Why, the very idea is positively—fierce. You've been awfully nice to me, but I had no idea of—this. Besides, Cortlandt's an awfully decent chap, and—and, well," he concluded, lamely, "there are lots of reasons."
"Oh no! There is only one reason; all the others count for nothing."
She spoke in a voice that he could scarcely hear.
"Perhaps! But it's—just impossible."
"You know what it means?" She stared at him with hard, level eyes. "I'm not a moderate person—I can't do things by halves. No! I see you don't think of that, you are mad over this Garavel girl. But you can't get her." Something in his dazzled, love-foolish smile enraged her. "So! You are planning even now. Well, then, understand there are practical reasons, political reasons, why you can't have her. If Garavel were insane enough to consent, others would not. She is part of—the machine, and there are those who will not consent to see all their work spoiled. That is altogether apart from me, you understand. I can build, and I can destroy—"
"There's nothing more to say," he interrupted her, quietly, "so I'd better excuse myself."
"Yes! I would prefer to be alone."
When he had bowed himself away she crushed the fan in her hand, staring out across the lights of the city below, and it was thus that Cortlandt found her a few moments later, as he idled along the veranda, his hands in his pockets, a cigarette between his lips. He dropped into the empty chair beside her, saying:
"Hello! Thought you had this with Anthony?"
"I had."
"What's the trouble?"