Sometimes at night, when he would be pacing the deck, she would
come and take his arm and call him Frank under her breath and ask
him if he still loved her; and in a manner half tender, half
mocking, would play on his feelings with a deliberate enjoyment of
the pain she inflicted. Her greatest power of torment was her
frankness. She would talk over her proposals; weigh one against
the other; revel in her self-analysis and solemnly ask Frank his
opinion on this or that part of her character. She talked with
equal freedom of her regard for himself, and was almost brutal in
confessing how hard it was to hold herself back.
"I think I must be awfully wicked, Frank," she said to him once.
"I love you so dearly, and yet I wouldn't marry you for anything!"
And then she ran on as to whether she ought to take Souvary and
live in Paris or Lord Comyngs and choose London. "It's so hard to
decide," she said, "and it's so important, because one couldn't
change one's mind afterwards."
"Not very well," said Frank.
"You mustn't grind your teeth so loud," she said. "It's
compromising."
"I wish you would talk about something else or go away," he said,
goaded out of his usual politeness.
"Oh, I love my little stolen tete-a-tetes with you!" she
exclaimed. "All those other men are used up, emotionally speaking.
The count would turn a neat phrase even if he were to blow his
brains out the next minute. They think they are splendidly cool,
but it only means that they have exhausted all their powers of
sensation.
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