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Page 108

Curiously human, curiously masculine at least was Stewart's
mental condition at that moment. He had never loved the girl; it
was with tremendous relief he had put her out of his life. And
yet--

"So it's old Peter now, is it?"

"No, no, not that, Walter. He has given me shelter, that is all.
I swear it. I look after the boy."

"Who else is here?"

"No one else; but--"

"Tell that rot to some one who does not know you."

"It is true. He never even looks at me. I am wicked, but I do not
lie." There was a catch of hope in her voice. Marie knew men
somewhat, but she still cherished the feminine belief that
jealousy is love, whereas it is only injured pride. She took a
step toward him. "Walter, I am sorry. Do you hate me?" She had
dropped the familiar "thou."

Stewart crossed the room until only Peter's table and lamp stood
between them.

"I didn't mean to be brutal," he said, rather largely, entirely
conscious of his own magnanimity. "It was pretty bad up there and
I know it. I don't hate you, of course. That's hardly possible
after--everything."

"You--would take me back?"

"No. It's over, Marie. I wanted to know where you were, that's
all; to see that you were comfortable and not frightened. You're
a silly child to think of the police."

Marie put a hand to her throat.

"It is the American, of course."

"Yes."

She staggered a trifle, recovered, threw up her head. "Then I
wish I had killed her!"

No man ever violently resents the passionate hate of one woman
for her rival in his affections. Stewart, finding the situation
in hand and Marie only feebly formidable, was rather amused and
flattered by the honest fury in her voice. The mouse was under
his paw; he would play a bit. "You'll get over feeling that way,
kid. You don't really love me."

"You were my God, that is all."

"Will you let me help you--money, I mean?"

"Keep it for her."

"Peter will be here in a minute." He bent over the table and eyed
her with his old, half-bullying, half-playful manner. "Come round
here and kiss me for old times."

"No!"

"Come."

She stood stubbornly still, and Stewart, still smiling, took a
step or two toward her. Then he stopped, ceased smiling, drew
himself up.

"You are quite right and I'm a rotter." Marie's English did not
comprehend "rotter," but she knew the tone. "Listen, Marie, I've
told the other girl, and there's a chance for me, anyhow. Some
day she may marry me. She asked me to see you."

"I do not wish her pity."

"You are wasting your life here. You cannot marry, you say,
without a dot. There is a chance in America for a clever girl.
You are clever, little Marie. The first money I can spare I'll
send you--if you'll take it. It's all I can do."

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Books | Photos | Paul Mutton | Mon 29th Dec 2025, 0:48

The Street of Seven Stars by Mary Roberts Rinehart