“Yes,” she said mechanically, “I remember; I remember everything.”
“You loved me well enough then,” he reminded her moodily. “You didn’t behave like an iceberg then, Lallie, and I’m not really changed; I’m the same man I was––I care for you just as much–––”
“You’re married!” she said.
She felt as if she had so much time mapped out before her during which she must put up with this man’s society; as if each moment were another inch torn in the rags of disillusionment which had got to be destroyed thoroughly before she could ever hope to gather up the broken threads of her life again.
He laughed at her reminder.
“I’m not the only married man who sometimes forgets that he is no longer a bachelor,” he said detestably.
He laid an arm familiarly along the back of her chair. He touched her chin with his fingers.
She moved back, the hot blood rushing riotously over her face. She was white no longer; she looked like a marble Galatea suddenly brought to life.
Raymond Ashton laughed, well pleased. He was confident that he had not lost his power over her. For the moment his appalling vanity blinded him to the fact that it was not love in her eyes, but scorn.