"I—I must go," she murmured, confusedly. "I've been here too long. We can talk about all this another time."
"But you consent," he said eagerly. "You wish to keep it secret, awhile longer? That is the agreement for the present?"
She hesitated for a moment. "Yes," she said at last, "that is the agreement, till—till I have time to think it over. And now I must go." She drew out the little jeweled watch that Mrs. Van Antwerp had given her, among other valuable things, at Christmas. "I am going out to luncheon, and I am supposed at present to be in my room, recovering from last night's ball."
"What a gay person you are!" Paul said, regarding her complacently. "Ah, Elizabeth, if you wanted to be nice, you could help me a great deal in my profession."
"Help you?" she repeated, staring at him blankly.
"Yes, in a social way," he explained. "It always helps an artist to be taken up by swell people. There's your friend Mrs. Van Antwerp—can't you—there's a good girl—persuade her to do something for me?"
"I heard her ask you to call," she returned, coldly.
"Yes, but she could do more than that," he said. "She could, for instance, have me sing and ask people to hear me. I need a start, I need patrons among society people; and that is exactly, my dear girl, what you can get me."
They were walking slowly by this time towards the entrance of the Park, and suddenly she turned and faced him with one of those flashes of defiance, which he rather admired. "Let me understand," she said, quickly, and a pale, cold gleam lighted up her white face, like the glint of steel upon marble. "You want me to—to get you invitations, to persuade people to ask you to sing? This is the—the price of your silence?"
He shrugged his shoulders, not much disturbed by the scorn in her voice. "If you choose to put it so plainly—yes," he said. "After all, it is not much to ask, and you ought, one would think, to be glad if you can help me."