"I've not seen much of him lately. How was the rehearsal?"
"Fair—fair." And Sperry forgot Brent and talked on and on about the play, not checking himself until the coffee was served. He had not observed that Susan was eating nothing. Neither had he observed that she was not listening; but there was excuse for this oversight, as she had set her expression at absorbed attention before withdrawing within herself to think—and to suffer. She came to the surface again when Sperry, complaining of the way the leading lady was doing her part, said: "No wonder Brent drops one after another. Women aren't worth much as workers. Their real mind's always occupied with the search for a man to support 'em."
"Not always," cried Susan, quivering with sudden pain. "Oh, no, Mr. Sperry—not always."
"Yes—there are exceptions," said Sperry, not noting how he had wounded her. "But—well, I never happened to run across one."
"Can you blame them?" mocked Susan. She was ashamed that she had been stung into crying out.
"To be honest—no," said Sperry. "I suspect I'd throw up the sponge and sell out if I had anything a lady with cash wanted to buy. I only suspect myself. But I know most men would. No, I don't blame the ladies. Why not have a nice easy time? Only one short life—and then—the worms."
She was struggling with the re-aroused insane terror of a fall back to the depths whence she had once more just come—and she felt that, if she fell again, it would mean the very end of hope. It must have been instinct or accident, for it certainly was not any prompting from her calm expression, that moved him to say:
"Now, tell me your troubles. I've told you mine. . . . You surely must have some?"
Susan forced a successful smile of raillery. "None to speak of," evaded she.
When she reached home there was a telegram—from Brent: