"I thought young Mallett had taught you to live pretty rapidly!" he said.
"No," she replied, "you only thought other people thought so. That is why you resented it. Your jealousy is of that sort—you don't care what I am, but you do care what the world thinks I am. And that is all there ever was to you—all there ever will be: desperate devotion to your wretched little social status, which includes sufficient money and a chaste wife to make it secure."
She laughed; fastened a gardenia in her hair:
"I don't know about your money, and I don't care. As for your wife, she will remain chaste as long as it suits her, and not one fraction of a second longer."
"Are you crazy?" he demanded.
"Why, it does seem crazy to you, I suppose—that a woman should have no regard for the sacredness of your social status. I have no regard for it. As for your honour"—she laughed unpleasantly—"I've never had it to guard, Jack. And I'll be responsible for my own, and the tarnishing of it. I think that is all I have to say."
She walked leisurely toward the door, passing him with a civil nod of dismissal, and left him standing there in his flower-embroidered court-dress, the electric light shining full on the thin gray hair at his temples.
In the corridor she met Naïda, charming in her blossom-embroidered panniers; and she took both her hands and kissed her, saying:
"Perhaps you won't care to have me caress you some day, so I'll take this opportunity, dear. Where is your brother?"
"Duane is dressing," she said. "What did you mean by my not wishing to kiss you some day?"