Marcia drew an unsteady breath and though she was in tumult now, that self-possession she had practiced for so long was her salvation.
"And she—"
A hurt crossed his face. It was an ordeal to tell the truth to this girl, but he could not evade.
"She thinks I'm her worst enemy."
For an instant a flicker as of hope showed in the girl's blue eyes but as she looked at his face, saw the lines of pain deepen, caught the sorrow reflected there, that hope departed and its tenderness, the genuine quality of it, was replaced by something sharp and hot; as natural, but far from gentle: jealousy.
"That's too had," she said.
She meant that; but within her was confusion, a ferment, started by that injection of jealousy. Those good impulses lingered, struggling for a hold, but the other Marcia, the one who had first loved John Taylor for the sake of his father's money, who had played him against Phil Rowe, using both as markers in a mercenary game, slowly dominated, covering the anguish in her heart with a sort of joy at his pain.
And yet there was enough of that transient self remaining to wish this man kindness. She did not want him to stay until she lost her temper, until she should taunt him. Already the jealousy was changing to the acid of temper.
She held out her hand.
"Good-bye, John," she said, with something of the old indifference in her voice. "I wish you well. I must go look after Fan, now; we'll be leaving at noon."
She slipped past him into the hall. Her chin was up,
