She told Mortimer without the slightest compunction that she was going.
He did not believe her and he gave her the new car--the big yellow-and-black Serin-Chanteur.

She sold it the same day to a bookmaker--an old friend of hers; withdrew several jewels from limbo--gems which Mortimer had given her--and gathered together everything for which, if he turned ugly, she might not be criminally liable.
She had never liked him--she had long disliked him.

Such women have an instinct for their own kind, and no matter how low in the scale a man of the other kind sinks he can never entirely supply the type of running mate that such women require, understand, and usually conceive a passion for.
Not liking him she had no hesitation in the matter; disliking him, whatever unpleasant had occurred during their companionship remained as an irritant to poison memory.

She resented a thousand little incidents that he scarcely knew had ever existed, but which she treasured without wasting emotion until the sum total and the time coincided to retaliate.
Not that she would have cared to harm him seriously; she was willing enough to disoblige him, however--decorate him, before she left him, with one extra scratch for the sake of auld lang syne.

So she wrote a note to the governors of the Patroons Club, saying that both Quarrier and Mortimer were aware that the guilt of her escapade could not be attached to Siward; that she knew nothing of Siward, had accepted his wager without meaning to attempt to win it, had never again seen him, and had, on the impulse of the moment, made her entry in the wake of several men.