Thursdale stood up, facing his hostess. Half the room was between
them, but they seemed to stare close at each other now that the
veils of reticence and ambiguity had fallen.
His first words were characteristic. "She _does_ despise me, then?"
he exclaimed.
"She thinks the pound of flesh you took was a little too near the
heart."
He was excessively pale. "Please tell me exactly what she said of
me."
"She did not speak much of you: she is proud. But I gather that
while she understands love or indifference, her eyes have never been
opened to the many intermediate shades of feeling. At any rate, she
expressed an unwillingness to be taken with reservations--she thinks
you would have loved her better if you had loved some one else
first. The point of view is original--she insists on a man with a
past!"
"Oh, a past--if she's serious--I could rake up a past!" he said with
a laugh.
"So I suggested: but she has her eyes on his particular portion of
it. She insists on making it a test case. She wanted to know what
you had done to me; and before I could guess her drift I blundered
into telling her."
Thursdale drew a difficult breath. "I never supposed--your revenge
is complete," he said slowly.
He heard a little gasp in her throat. "My revenge? When I sent for
you to warn you--to save you from being surprised as _I_ was
surprised?"
"You're very good--but it's rather late to talk of saving me." He
held out his hand in the mechanical gesture of leave-taking.
Pages:
201
202
203
204
205
206
207
208
209
210
211
212
213
214
215
216
217
218
219
220
221
222
223
224
225