“I misunderstood nothing,” she said; “you are quite right.”
“Then what are you going to do?”
“Do?” she asked in slow surprise. “What am I to do, Howard?”
“You have said that you loved me.”
“I said the truth, I think.”
“Then—”
“Well?”
“How long are you going to keep me at arm's length?” he asked violently.
“That lies with you,” she said, smiling. She looked at him for a moment, then, resting her hands on her hips, she began to pace the floor, to and fro, to and fro, and at every turn she raised her head to look at him. All the strange grace of her became insolent provocation—her pale eyes, clear, limpid, harbouring no delusions, haunted with the mockery of wisdom, challenged and checked him. “Howard,” she said, “why should I be the fool you want me to be because I love you? Why should I be even if I wished to be? You desire an understanding? Voilà ! You have it. I love you; I never misunderstood you from the first; I could not afford to. You know what I am; you know what you arouse in me?”
Slim, pale, depraved in all but body she stood, eyeing him a moment, the very incarnation of vicious perversity.