"Yes," he said. "We do. We can’t stop. We’re mates. We complete each other. We’re made for each other. Even when I’m hating you so that I could wring your neck, I know in my soul it’s only a phase of love." "Well," she said, "it’s not, with me." But she was trembling with a mysterious and unfathomable emotion--a wicked and irresistible feeling of kinship with this man. Not love, not tenderness, not any feeling that she could name; only this conviction that they were bound up together, that they could never be strangers, that it was against nature that they should part. "Marry Eddie, if you like," he went on. "I don’t care. You’re mine. You can be his wife; it won’t matter. You won’t love him. You’ll love _me_. I’ll be your lover!" Her face flamed. "Oh!" she cried. "Oh! You’re the wickedest man that ever lived!" "I’m not wicked!" he protested with earnestness. "The wickedness lies in your going to Eddie after you’ve loved me--in your faithlessness." "My faithlessness!" she cried. "It was you who left me," he reminded her. She was amazed at this very characteristic turn which he had given to their talk. That he should pose as the injured one! But her pride forbade her to mention her wrongs. "It’s no use talking," she said. "It’s all over now. The less we see of each other, the better satisfied I’ll be." They had reached the gates of Buena Vista, and Vincent appeared unwilling to be seen with Angelica. "I’m going farther," he said. "But, Angelica, I won’t let you go!" II The visit was altogether a disappointment. Angelica had imagined that it would be a sort of triumph for her, that she could at least a little exult over these "rich people"; but, after all, it was nothing but an obvious condescension on their part. She hadn’t conquered them; they had accepted her voluntarily--not reluctantly, but rather graciously. It was a tiresome day. Mrs. Russell’s cordiality had evaporated overnight, and she was bored and yawning. She lay in a deck chair on the piazza, rustling through the Sunday papers, and talking to Angelica now and then with outrageously forced politeness. She had an air which Angelica knew of old; when one of her fits of ennui came on her, she all but pushed her bewildered guests out of the door. But Angelica stayed until after supper. That was what she had planned to do, and what she was determined to do. She too sat on the piazza, with a Sunday paper, concealing her sullenness. There wasn’t any supper, properly speaking. Annie was out, and Mrs. Russell said that their new custom was to help themselves from the ice-chest--a plan which might have been jolly if the people had been a little less hostile. They stood about in the immaculate kitchen with plates in their hands, Mrs. Russell yawning, the doctor subdued, Angelica severe, and Courtland embarrassed and aggrieved. Vincent wasn’t there. There was beer and cold chicken and ham and salad and tarts.