"May I ask what you consider a test of success?" she queried, in spite of her desire to drop the discussion before Bob's disloyalty drove her to downright hatred of him.
"Why, public opinion, of course," he said shortly.
"Has your friend ever had an appearance?" She was beginning to hate him already.
"An appearance?"
"Has she ever sung in opera?" Betty kept control of her voice, and her tightly clasped hands were hidden in her lap.
He shook his head. "Oh, no, but I once read an announcement that she was to appear at the Theatre Parnasse. I forget what it was—quite a good role, I believe."
Betty picked up the neglected gardenias and pressed their cool petals against her hot cheek.
"Go on," she said.
Bob hesitated; he was beginning to wish he had never started on this tack. He had no idea Betty took her voice so seriously.
"Well, to tell the truth——" He pulled nervously at his cigar, and, discovering it to be out, knocked off the ash and relighted it with unusual care. He felt that this business of chastening Betty was a failure from every point of view. The desire to "get even" had completely gone from him; he would be glad now to surrender on any terms, but Betty's waiting eyes offered him no quarter.