She clasped her hands behind her, confronting him with that gaily audacious allure which he knew so well: 

“Does a man really care whether or not he is in love with a woman before he makes love to her?”

“Do you want an honest answer?”

“Please.”

“Well, then—­if she is sufficiently attractive, a man doesn’t usually care.”

“Am I sufficiently attractive?”

“Yes.”

“Then—­why do you hesitate?...  I know the rules of the game.  When one wearies, the other must pretend to....  And then they make their adieux very amiably....  Isn’t that a man’s ideal of an affair with a pretty woman?”

He laughed:  “I suppose so.”

“So do I. You are no novice, are you—­as I am?”

“Are you a novice, Rosalie?”

“Yes, I am.  You probably don’t believe it.  It is absurd, isn’t it, considering these lonely years—­considering what he has done—­that I haven’t anything with which to reproach myself.”

“It is very admirable,” he said.

“Oh, yes, theoretically.  I was too fastidious—­perhaps a little bit too decent.  It’s curious how inculcated morals and early precepts make mountains out of what is really very simple travelling.  If a woman ceases to love her husband, she is going to miss too much in life if she’s afraid to love anybody else....  I suppose I have been afraid.”

“It’s rather a wholesome sort of fear,” he said.

“Wholesome as breakfast-food.  I hate it.  Besides, the fear doesn’t exist any more,” shaking her head.  “Like the pretty girls in a very popular and profoundly philosophical entertainment, I’ve simply got to love somebody”—­she smiled at him—­“and I’d prefer to fall honestly and disgracefully in love with you—­if you’d give me the opportunity.”  There was a pause.  “Otherwise,” she concluded, “I shall content myself with doing a mischief to your sex where I can.  I give you the choice, Duane—­I give you the disposal of myself.  Am I to love—­you?—­or be loved by God knows whom—­and make him suffer for it”—­she set her little even teeth—­“and pay back to men what man has done to me?”

“Nonsense,” he said good-humouredly; “isn’t there anything except playing at love that counts in the world?”

“Nothing counts without it.  I’ve learned that much.”

“Some people have done pretty well without it.”

“You haven’t.  You might have been a really good painter if you cared for a woman who cared for you.  There’s no tenderness in your work; it’s all technique and biceps.”

He said gravely:  “You are right.”

“Am I?...  Do you think you could try to care for me—­even for that reason, Duane—­to become a better painter?”

“I’m afraid not,” he said pleasantly.

There was a silence; her expression changed subtly, then the colour came back and she smiled and nodded adieu.

“Good-bye,” she said; “I’m going to get into all sorts of mischief.  The black flag is hoisted. Malheur aux hommes!”