“From me?”
“Or from myself. Wouldn’t you like to think that I’m afraid of you?”
“I shouldn’t like to think that you’re afraid of anything.”
“I’m not.” But her tone was that of the defiance which seeks to encourage itself.
“I’d call it a desertion,” he said steadily.
“Oh, no! You’re secure. You need nothing but what you’ve got. Power, reputation, position, success. What more can heart desire?” she taunted.
“You.”
She quivered under the blunt word, but rallied to say lightly: “Six months isn’t long. Though I may stretch it to a year.”
“It’s too long for endurance.”
“Oh, you’ll do very well without me, Ban.”