"I wish to God you were a man!" he answers, in a hard, low voice; while his straight brows draw together into one dark line across his face, and his lips look white and thin under his moustache.
"That you might kill me!" she says, incoherent with excitement. "Well, kill me now! If revenge is so pleasant to you, I give you leave!"
"Let us have no heroics, please," says he, contemptuously; "you don't appear to be aware that it is not the fashion for English gentlemen to murder women who make fools of them. It may be a sensible practice, but it is at present confined to the tiers état."
Having spoken, he makes a slight movement to depart.
"Are you going to give me up?" she cries, smiting her hands together, and forgetting in her great dismay to reflect whether the remonstrance accorded well with her dignity or not.
"I have no claim upon you," he answers, icily.
"What do you mean?" she cries, passionately. "You are unjust. There could be nothing too bad for him to say of me, but what injury have I done you? You ought to thank me and praise me for having been wicked and dishonourable and double-dealing for your sake."
"For my sake!" he repeats, with a sardonic smile. "I am hardly so conceited as to take it personally."
"What do you mean?" she asks, quickly. "If I did not do it for your sake, for whose did I?"
He is silent.