She looked into his face again as in all friendliness without the suggestion of a whimper, he said the things from which most men would shrink.
She heard her voice saying:
"Yes. Anything was better than going on." She tried to put sarcasm into the tone, wanted to wither him with her scorn, but somehow those mercenary impulses in her were weakening, breaking down, those maxims and values that had been nursed and cultivated to stifle the Marcia Murray who might have been, were giving way, and with that release of something finer and gentler went her self-possession and her ability to fence with words. For the moment, she was genuine and burst out impetuously, saying the things she had said to herself during wakeful hours at Windigo, things she had told herself—but the truth of which she had denied.
"John, I made a fool of myself that day. I—you see—I have been badly mistaken; I've said and done the wrong thing for long—there are a great many things I regret and one of them is the scene I made before that girl—I must have hurt her."
"We all change, Marcia," he said with a grave smile. "I'm glad if you're sorry. It was unworthy of you. As for Miss Foraker, though, you waste time feeling for her. Not that she's thick-skinned. It might have disturbed her a great deal, but she's used to unpleasantness. She's had more than her share."
She said: "You think a lot of her, John?"
She pulled the straw sailor tighter over her golden hair, and in her eyes was something rueful as though she wanted him to make denial.
"Yes—a lot."
