"Oh, let's not discuss it. I don't want you to answer. I don't want to think of it. I just want to forget--and to plan. You understand how I feel?" She faced him with eyes bright and lustrous, her red lips parted in a smile. She was a very beautiful woman, Kirk realized--a very compelling, unusual woman, and one whose capabilities seemed unbounded. He began dimly to perceive that all women have great capabilities for good or evil, depending largely upon the accident of their environment, and with this thought came the feeling that he must speak frankly now or prove himself worse than base. If only she were of the weakly feminine type his task would be far easier. But it was hard to strike her, for the very reason that he knew she would take the blow bravely and meet its full force. "I must answer," he said. "I don't want to pretend; I'm not good at lying. I can't go through with any such arrangement as you suggested. Why, the very idea is positively--fierce. You've been awfully nice to me, but I had no idea of--this. Besides, Cortlandt's an awfully decent chap, and--and, well," he concluded, lamely, "there are lots of reasons." "Oh no! There is only one reason; all the others count for nothing." She spoke in a voice that he could scarcely hear. "Perhaps! But it's--just impossible." "You know what it means?" She stared at him with hard, level eyes. "I'm not a moderate person--I can't do things by halves. No! I see you don't think of that, you are mad over this Garavel girl. But you can't get her." Something in his dazzled, love-foolish smile enraged her. "So! You are planning even now. Well, then, understand there are practical reasons, political reasons, why you can't have her. If Garavel were insane enough to consent, others would not. She is part of--the machine, and there are those who will not consent to see all their work spoiled. That is altogether apart from me, you understand. I can build, and I can destroy--" "There's nothing more to say," he interrupted her, quietly, "so I'd better excuse myself." "Yes! I would prefer to be alone." When he had bowed himself away she crushed the fan in her hand, staring out across the lights of the city below, and it was thus that Cortlandt found her a few moments later, as he idled along the veranda, his hands in his pockets, a cigarette between his lips. He dropped into the empty chair beside her, saying: "Hello! Thought you had this with Anthony?" "I had." "What's the trouble?" "There is no trouble." She began to rock, while he studied her profile; then, conscious of his look, she inquired, "Aren't you dancing?" "No, just looking on, as usual. I prefer to watch. You have broken your fan, it seems." He flung his cigarette into the darkness and, reaching out, took the fan from her hand. She saw that his lips were drawn back in a peculiar smile. "Well! Is that so strange?" she answered, sharply. "You seem--" She broke off and looked deliberately away from him.