"I know you had a great deal to put up with," he said, "but for both our sakes I wish it had come in some other way."
"Oh, I don't care," she cried, recklessly. "The one thing I can grasp in all this turmoil, the one thing that rings in my ears every moment, is that I am free, FREE! That is all that matters to me. You showed your loyalty to Stephen more than once, and, though your scruples angered me, I honor you for them now. I can see, too, that you had no choice but to put me off even that night of the dance. But my chains are broken, and it is all different now."
"Your husband's death can make no difference with us, Mrs. Cortlandt," he said, gravely.
"We have talked openly before, and there is no need to do otherwise now. You mean by that that you don't care for me, but I know better. I believe there is a love so strong that it must find an answer. Although you may not care for me now as you care for—some one else—I KNOW that I can make you forget her and put me in her place. I know men, and I know you. I came here prepared to be honest—shameless, if you like. I am young, I have money, I have power; I work for the love of doing things, and you are learning to do the same. I can help you, oh, so much! We can win happiness together just as easily as we can win material success, and that is ours now for the asking. It dazzles me to think of it, Kirk. It is like a glimpse of paradise, and I can show it all to you." She was bending forward, her lips parted, the color gleaming in her cheeks, her whole face transformed by a passionate eagerness.
"Wait!" he said, harshly. "You force me to break my word. I don't want to tell you this, but—I am married."
She rose slowly, her eyes fixed in bewilderment upon his, her hand clutching at his sleeve.
"You—never told me that! It was some mad college prank, I suppose."
"No, no. I married Gertrudis Garavel that night at the Tivoli."
"Oh, that can't be. That was the night of the dance."
"It is quite true."