Her eyes were turned away. He could only see the faint outline of her cheek and the slender curve of her girlish neck. She threw out remarks as they traveled—remarks which called for no answer and expected none.
“Horace’ll have to own now that she was wise in cultivating other friendships. Poor old Horace!—And all those bills will be covered up to-morrow with some new great success. Such is fame!—Fluffy’s so discouraged.”
“Do you think that was true?”
“What?” Her question was asked lazily, more out of politeness than curiosity.
“That October was her autobiography?”
“Partly. Artistic people like to think themselves tragic. You do. I’ve noticed.”
“I think it was.” He refused to be diverted. “I think it was real tragedy. She’s given up so much for fame; it’s brought her nothing.”
Desire laughed quietly. “The old subject. I knew where you were going the minute you started. It’s like a hat that you want to get rid of; you hang it on every peg you come to. No, I’m not meaning to be unkind; but you do amuse me, Meester Deek.—Fluffy’s very much to be envied.”
“Why?”
“She’s beautiful.”