"You must know, dearest, that to me
Constance--all the women I've ever seen--aren't worth your
little finger. You're all that they are, and a whole lot more
besides." He seized her in his arms. "You wouldn't leave
me--you couldn't! You understand how men are--how they get
these fits of craziness about a pair of eyes or a figure or
some trick of voice or manner. But that doesn't affect the
man's heart. I love you, Susan. I adore you."
She did not let him see how sincerely he had touched her. Her
eyes were of their deepest violet, but he had never learned
that sign. She smiled mockingly; the fingers that caressed
his hair were trembling. "We've tided each other over, Rod.
The play's a success. You're all right again--and so am I.
Now's the time to part."
"Is it Brent, Susie?"
"I quit him last week."
"There's no one else. You're going because of Constance!"
She did not deny. "You're free and so am I," said she
practically. "I'm going. So--let's part sensibly. Don't
make a silly scene."
She knew how to deal with him--how to control him through his
vanity. He drew away from her, chilled and sullen. "If you
can live through it, I guess I can," said he. "You're making
a damn fool of yourself--leaving a man that's fond of you--and
leaving when he's successful."
"I always was a fool, you know," said she. She had decided
against explaining to him and so opening up endless and vain
argument.
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