She coloured with surprise. Then something in her scornful eyes inspired him with sudden intuition.
"As a matter of fact," he said lightly, "you care for him still."
"I can very easily prove the contrary," she said, walking slowly up to him, close, closer, until the slight tremor of contact halted her and her soft, irregular breath touched his face.
"What a girl like you needs," he laughed, taking her into his arms, "is a man to hold her this way—every now and then, and"—he kissed her—"tell her she is incomparable—which I cannot truthfully tell you, dear." He released her at arms' length.
"I don't know whose fault it is," he went on: "I don't know whether he still really cares for you in spite of his weak peregrinations to other shrines; but you still care for him. And it's up to you to make him what he can be—the average husband. There are only two kinds, Rosalie, the average and the bad."
She looked straight into his eyes, but the deep, mantling colour belied her audacity.
"Do you know," she said, "that we haven't—lived together for two years?"
"I don't want to know such things," he said gently.
"Well, you do know now. I—am—very much alone. You see I have already become capable of saying anything—and of doing it, too."
There came a reckless glimmer into her eyes; she set her teeth—a trick of hers; the fresh lips parted slightly under her rapid breathing.