“What are you thinking, Lallie?” he asked her.
She sat very straight and stiff in her chair.
“I am thinking,” she said, “how impossible it seems that I can ever have thought that I cared for you.” Her voice was low but very clear, and he heard each word distinctly. “I am thinking that you are the most contemptible thing I have ever met in my life––I am thinking how sorry I am for the woman who is your wife.”
She pushed back her chair and rose.
“Would you like to hear any more of my thoughts?” she asked.
Ashton had risen too; there was a look of bewildered amazement in his face; he tried to laugh. Even now he thought she was joking.
“Lallie––” he said hoarsely. He half held his hand to her. “Lallie––” he said again––but the cold contempt of her face struck the appeal from her lips.
He drew himself up with a poor attempt at dignity.
“So virtue is to be the order of the day, is it?” he said sneeringly. “Very well–––” His eyes flamed as they rested on her face. “It makes one wonder why you are here––in Paris––alone!” he said insultingly––“If you are alone.”
There was a little point of silence. For a moment Esther scanned his handsome face as if she were trying to remember what it was she had ever loved in him––his eyes!––but they were so cruel and insolent––his lips ... she shuddered, realising that in all her life she could never undo the memory of his kisses––then she pulled herself together with a great effort and turned away.