He had not made the
slightest attempt to kiss her in greeting--and she had not even held out
her hand.
"You are quite rich now, John, aren't you?" after a short silence she
presently asked nonchalantly--"that is, as you English count riches--ten
or twelve thousand a year. I suppose it will keep you in comfort."
He leaned back and smiled one of his old cynical smiles.
"Yes," he said, "it is extremely rich for me; my personal wants are not
great."
"That is splendid, then," she went on, "because I shall not feel I am
really depriving you of anything by doing what I intend to do in
throwing you over--otherwise I should have been glad to settle something
upon you for life!"
As he listened, John Derringham's eyes flashed forth steel, but the pith
of her speech had in it such divine portent, as it fell upon his ears,
that the insult of its wording left him less roused than she hoped he
would have been.
She saw that it was joy, not rage, which lay deep in his eyes, and the
fury of her whole nature blazed up, so that she forgot the years of
polish that she had acquired--forgot her elaborately prepared plan that
for an hour she would torture and play with him, as a cat plays with a
mouse, and, crimsoning with wrath, she hurled forth her displeasure,
cutting things short.
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