“Cut it, Connie!” exclaimed Noel. “Do you mean to tell me that if that bounder, to satisfy his filthy vanity, said ‘Come,’ you’d go? Like a wretched poodle on a string. Good Lord! Where is your pride?”
She shook her head.
“I only know that I must talk to him again.”
They finished lunch with little conversation. Noel was angry and uncomfortable. As they drank their coffee, and he saw that Petrovitch too was nearing the end, he made another effort.
“Connie, let’s get out before he’s finished. Will you? You’ll be glad of it all your life. I promise you you will. It means a lot to me.”
His earnestness had no effect. He went on:
“You’ve always followed the line of least resistance—that’s why you’re what you are now. You’ve chucked away your life. Don’t do it again, Connie. You know what that man’s opinion of you is. He showed it pretty clearly when he beckoned to you just now. There’s just one way you can hurt him—and one way you can prove to him, and to yourself, that you’ve got the right stuff in you. Leave here with me, without speaking to him. Please, Connie. Will you?”
She wavered. Then she seized upon some words of his, and he knew that he had lost.
“Hurt him? I wouldn’t hurt him for anything in the world. I want to show him that one woman at least is faithful to him, to the end.”
This was too much for Noel. He remembered the French officer, Freeman, Chiozzi, and felt sick. His impulse was to get up and leave her then and there, but he stayed with a set jaw and angry eyes. His hair seemed to bristle with antagonism when Petrovitch pushed back his chair at last and said to his companion: