"You wish," said she, "the hotel people to think that it is you who have given _me_ notice?" "You poor thing. I only wanted the fly to go down to my account." "You expect me to believe that?" "I don't expect anything of you--now. I suppose it's Colonel Hankin who has been talking about my life? It wasn't Mr. Lucy, though you'd like to make me think so." "There's no need for anybody to talk. Do you suppose I don't know what you are? You can't hide what's in you. You're--you're full of it. And you've no shame about it. You can stand there, knowing that I know, and ask me what you've done. How do I know what you've done? I don't want to know it. It's bad enough to know what you are. And to know that I've been living with it for three months. You got hold of me, an innocent woman, and used me as a cover for your evil life. That's all you wanted me for." "Whatever I've done, I've done nothing to deserve that." "You think not? Have you any idea what you've done--to me?" "No; I haven't. What have I done?" "I'm going to tell you. You've never ceased casting it up to me that I'm not married, that I haven't your attractions--I thank heaven I have not--I am not the sort of woman you take me for. I never have wanted to be married, but if--if ever I had, I shouldn't want it now. You've spoilt all that for me. I shall never see a man without thinking of _you_. I shall hate every man I meet because of you." "Well, hate them, hate them. It's better than loving them. Let me strap that box. You'll tear your poor heart out." Miss Keating wrenched the strap from Kitty's hands. "Ah, how you hate me! Hate the men, dear, that can't do you any harm; but don't hate the other women. At my worst I never did that." Miss Keating shrugged her shoulders, for she was putting on her coat. Kitty looked at her and sighed. "Bunny," said she, "I want to make it quite clear to you why you're going. You think it's because you know something horrible about me. But it isn't. You don't know anything about me. You've only been listening to some of the people in the hotel. They don't know anything about me either. They've never met me in their lives before. But they've been thinking things and saying things, and you've swallowed it all because you wanted to. You're so desperately keen on making out there's something bad about me. Of course, you might have made it out; you might have proved all sorts of things against me. But you haven't. That's my whole point. You haven't proved a thing, have you? If you were my husband, and wanted to get rid of me, you'd have to trump up some evidence, wouldn't you?" "There is no need to trump up evidence. I'm acting on my instinct and belief." "Oh, I know you believe it all right." "I can't help what I believe." "No, you can't help it. You can't help what you want. And you wouldn't have wanted it if you hadn't been so furiously unhappy. I was furiously unhappy myself once. That's why I understand you."