"That means, then, that there's no one incident--or person--I didn't
know but--" She hesitated, and Diane took up the sentence.

"You didn't know but what I had given George specific reason for his
act. I may as well tell you that I never did--at least not in the sense
in which you mean it. George always knew that I loved him, and that I
was true to him. He trusted me, and was justified in doing so. It wasn't
that. It was the whole thing--the whole life. There was nothing worthy
in it from the beginning to the end. I played with fire, and while
George knew it was only playing, it was fire all the same."

"But you say you were never--burnt."

"If I wasn't, others were. I led men on till they thought--till they
thought--I don't know how to say it--"

"Till they thought you should have led them further?"

"Precisely; and Bienville was one of them. It wasn't entirely his fault.
I allowed him to think--to think--oh, all sorts of things!--and then
when I was tired of him, I turned him into ridicule. I took advantage of
his folly to make him the laughing-stock of Paris; and to avenge himself
he lied. He said I had been his--No; I can't tell you."

"I understand. You needn't tell me. You needn't tell me any more."

"There isn't much more to tell that I can put into words. It was
always--just like that--just as it was with Bienville. He wasn't the
only one. I made coquetry a game--but a game in which I cheated. I was
never fair to any of them. It's only the fact that the others were more