"I will tell you why," he went on, as if he were answering a protest. "Every one of us has an individuality of some sort. And in spite of everything and anything, except death or hopeless disease, that individuality will insist upon expressing itself."
"Mine is expressing itself," said she with a light smile—the smile of a light woman.
"You can't rest in this present life of yours. Your individuality is too strong. It will have its way—and for all your mocking smiling, you know I am right. I understand how you were tempted into it——"
She opened her lips—changed her mind and stopped her lips with her cigarette.
"I don't blame you—and it was just as well. This life has taught you—will teach you—will advance you in your career. . . . Tell me, what gave you the idea that I was disappointed?"
She tossed her cigarette into the big ash tray. "As I told you, it is too late." She rose and looked at him with a strange, sweet smile. "I've got any quantity of faults," said she. "But there's one I haven't got. I don't whine."
"You don't whine," assented he, "and you don't lie—and you don't shirk. Men and women have been canonized for less. I understand that for some reason you can't talk about——"
"Then why do you continue to press me?" said she, a little coldly.
He accepted the rebuke with a bow. "Nevertheless," said he, with raillery to carry off his persistence, "I shall get you. If not sooner, then when the specter of an obscure—perhaps poor—old age begins to agitate the rich hangings of youth's banquet hall."
"That'll be a good many years yet," mocked she. And from her lovely young face flashed the radiant defiance of her perfect youth and health.