"She took him away from me, didn't she?" And Claire's eyes were
suddenly alight with the hatred of her outcast class. "Why did she
get him? Why is she Mrs. van Tuiver, and I nobody? Because her
father was rich, because she had power and position, while I had to
scratch for myself in the world. Is that true, or isn't it?"
I could not deny that it might be part of the truth. "But they're
married now," I said, "and he loves her."
"He loves me, too. And I love him still, in spite of the way he's
treated me. He's the only man I ever really loved. Do you think I'm
going off and hide in a hole, while she spends his money and plays
the princess up and down the Avenue? Not much!"
I fell silent. Should I set out upon another effort at "moulding
water"? Should I give Claire one more scolding--tell her, perhaps,
how her very features were becoming hard and ugly, as a result of
the feelings she was harbouring? Should I recall the pretences of
generosity and dignity she had made when we first met? I might have
attempted this--but something held me back. After all, the one
person who could decide this issue was Douglas van Tuiver.
I rose. "Well, I have to be going.
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