Darrow stared into the tumbler, tasted the medicine, and frowned.
“Isn’t there—isn’t there a chance—a ghost of a chance?” he asked.
“I think not,” she answered—“I am sure not. I shall never see him again.”
“I meant for myself,” said Darrow, deliberately, looking her full in the face.
She crimsoned to her temples, then her eyes flashed violet fire.
“Not the slightest,” she said.
“Thanks,” said Darrow, flippantly; “I only wanted to know.”
“You know now, don’t you?” she asked, a trifle excited, yet realizing instinctively that somehow she had been tricked. And yet, until that moment, she had believed Darrow to be her slave. He had been and was still; but she was not longer certain, and her uncertainty confused her.
“Do you mean to say that you have any human feeling left for that vagabond?” demanded Darrow. So earnest was he that his tanned face grew tense and white.
“I’ll tell you,” she said, breathlessly, “that from this moment I have no human feeling left for you! And I never had! I know it now; never! never! I had rather be the divorced wife of Jack Haltren than the wife of any man alive!”