"It doesn't in the least matter whether I do or not," laughed he."Don't bother about what I think--what anyone thinks--of you.The point here, as always, is that you believe it, yourself.There's no reason why a woman who is making a career should not be virtuous.She will probably not get far if she isn't more or less so.Dissipation doesn't help man or woman, especially the ruinous dissipation of license in passion.On the other hand, no woman can ever hope to make a career who persists in narrowing and cheapening herself with the notion that her virtue is her all.She'll not amount to much as a worker in the fields of action."Susan reflected, sighed."It's very, very hard to get rid of one's sex.""It's impossible," declared he."Don't try.But don't let it worry you, either.""Everyone can't be as strong as you are--so absorbed in a career that they care for nothing else."This amused him.With forearms on the edge of the table he turned his cigarette slowly round between his fingers, watching the smoke curl up from it.She observed that there was more than a light sprinkle of gray in his thick, carefully brushed hair.She was filled with curiosity as to the thoughts just then in that marvelous brain of his; nor did it lessen her curiosity to know that never would those thoughts be revealed to her.What women had he loved? What women had loved him? What follies had he committed? From how many sources he must have gathered his knowledge of human nature of--woman nature! And no doubt he was still gathering.
What woman was it now?
When he lifted his glance from the cigarette, it was to call the waiter and get the bill."I've a supper engagement," he said, "and it's nearly eleven o'clock.""Eleven o'clock!" she exclaimed.
"Times does fly--doesn't it?--when a man and a woman, each an unexplored mystery to the other, are dining alone and talking about themselves.""It was my fault," said Susan.
His quizzical eyes looked into hers--uncomfortably far.
She flushed."You make me feel guiltier than I am," she protested, under cover of laughing glance and tone of raillery.
"Guilty? Of what?"
"You think I've been trying to--to `encourage' you," replied she frankly.
"And why shouldn't you, if you feel so inclined?" laughed he.
"That doesn't compel me to be--encouraged."
"Honestly I haven't," said she, the contents of seriousness still in the gay wrapper of raillery."At least not any more than----""You know, a woman feels bound to `encourage' a man who piques her by seeming--difficult.""Naturally, you'd not have objected to baptizing the new hat and dress with my heart's blood." She could not have helped laughing with him."Unfortunately for you--or rather for the new toilette--my poor heart was bled dry long, long ago.I'm a busy man, too--busy and a little tired.""I deserve it all," said she."I've brought it on myself.
And I'm not a bit sorry I started the subject.I've found out you're quite human--and that'll help me to work better."They separated with the smiling faces of those who have added an evening altogether pleasant to memory's store of the past's happy hours--that roomy storehouse which is all too empty even where the life has been what is counted happy.He insisted on sending her home in his auto, himself taking a taxi to the Players' where the supper was given.The moment she was alone for the short ride home, her gayety evaporated like a delicious but unstable perfume.
Why? Perhaps it was the sight of the girls on the stroll.
Had she really been one of them?--and only a few days ago?
Impossible! Not she not the real self...and perhaps she would be back there with them before long.No--never, never, in any circumstances!...She had said, "Never!" the first time she escaped from the tenements, yet she had gone back...
were any of those girls strolling along--were, again, any of them Freddie Palmer's? At the thought she shivered and quailed.She had not thought of him, except casually, in many months.What if he should see her, should still feel vengeful--he who never forgot or forgave--who would dare anything! And she would be defenseless against him....She remembered what she had last read about him in the newspaper.
He had risen in the world, was no longer in the criminal class apparently, had moved to the class of semi-criminal wholly respectable contractor-politician.No, he had long since forgotten her, vindictive Italian though he was.
The auto set her down at home.Her tremors about Freddie departed; but the depression remained.She felt physically as if she had been sitting all evening in a stuffy room with a dull company after a heavy, badly selected dinner.She fell easy prey to one of those fits of the blues to which all imaginative young people are at least occasional victims, and by which those cursed and hampered with the optimistic temperament are haunted and harassed and all but or quite undone.She had a sense of failure, of having made a bad impression.She feared he, recalling and reinspecting what she had said, would get the idea that she was not in earnest, was merely looking for a lover--for a chance to lead a life of luxurious irresponsibility.Would it not be natural for him, who knew women well, to assume from her mistakenly candid remarks, that she was like the rest of the women, both the respectable and the free? Why should he believe in her, when she did not altogether believe in herself but suspected herself of a secret hankering after something more immediate, more easy and more secure than the stage career? The longer she thought of it the clearer it seemed to her to be that she had once more fallen victim to too much hope, too much optimism, too much and too ready belief in her fellow-beings--she who had suffered so much from these follies, and had tried so hard to school herself against them.
She fought this mood of depression--fought alone, for Spenser did not notice and she would not annoy him.She slept little that night; she felt that she could not hope for peace until she had seen Brent again.
