“I—she—Never mind; I know, that’s all. And I came, thinking maybe you’d be glad—”
“Of another?” he laughed coarsely, looking her over with an appraising scrutiny. “Well, a fellow might have a worse—substitute.”
Patsy crimsoned. It seemed incredible that the man she had listened to that day in Marjorie Schuyler’s den, who had then gripped her sympathies and thereby pulled her after him in spite of past illness and all common sense, should be the man speaking now. And yet—what was it Gregory Jessup had said about him? Had he not implied that old King Midas had long ago warped his son’s trust in women until he had come to look upon them all as modern Circes? And gradually shame for herself changed into pity for him. What a shabby performance life must seem to such as he!
She had an irresistible desire to take him with her behind the scenes and show him what it really was; to point out how with a change of line here, a new cue there, and a different drop behind; with a choice of fellow-players, and better lights, and the right spirit back of it all—what a good thing he could make of his particular part. But would he see—could she make him understand? It was worth trying.
“You are every bit wrong,” she said, evenly. “Look at me. Do I look like an adventuress? And haven’t you ever had anybody kind to you simply because they had a preference for kindness?”
The two looked at each other steadily while the machine crawled at minimum speed down the deserted road. Her eyes never flinched under the blighting weight of his, although her heart seemed to stop a hundred times and the soul of her shrivel into nothing.
“Well,” she heard herself saying at last, “don’t you think you can believe in me?”
The man laughed again, coarsely. “Believe in you? That’s precisely what I’m doing this minute—believing in your cleverness and a deuced pretty way with you. Now don’t get mad, my dear. You are all daughters of Eve, and your intentions are very innocent—of course.”
Pity and sympathy left Patsy like starved pensioners. The eyes looking into his blazed with righteous anger and a hating distrust; they carried to him a stronger, more direct message than words could have done. His answer was to double the speed of the car.
“Stop the car!” she demanded.