“You, least of all. Mrs. Faulkner is a dear, but she is so unwilling to admit she suspects anybody—I mean, anybody we know. She insists it was some stranger—and, it wasn’t—I mean—oh—what am I saying? Joyce, I shall go crazy.”
Natalie looked distraught. Her eyes had a wild look, as of a hunted animal. Her little fingers plucked at the silk of her robe, and her slippered foot tapped the rug continuously.
“You didn’t love Eric, did you?” and Joyce looked at the girl, as if seized with a new idea.
“No! I hated him! Forgive me, Joyce, but I can’t help it. He was almost repulsive to me. Not physically—he was handsome, and most correct-mannered, and all that. But I was afraid of him. I’ve only posed for a few artists, but they were all—you know—impersonal in their relations with me. But Eric made love to me from the first.”
“I know it. I saw it.”
“And you didn’t resent it?”
“I felt more pity for you than jealousy of you. I know Eric, and oh, Natalie, I tried so hard to be good, and to do my duty—but Eugene was always around, you know—and, must I confess it? I was rather glad that Eric’s attention was taken up with his model.”
“I know. I saw all that. But you see, I care for Barry. And Eric told me——”
“What, Natalie?”
“No, I can’t tell you. Oh, Joyce, I am in danger. I can’t ward it off, and I can’t meet it. What shall I do? What can I do?”