"Years that pass quickly," retorted he, unmoved.
She was still radiant, still smiling, but once more she was seeing the hideous old women of the tenements. Into her nostrils stole the stench of the foul den in which she had slept with Mrs. Tucker and Mrs. Reardon—and she was hearing the hunchback of the dive playing for the drunken dancing old cronies, with their tin cups of whiskey.
No danger of that now? How little she was saving of her salary from Palmer! She could not "work" men—she simply could not. She would never put by enough to be independent and every day her tastes for luxury had firmer hold upon her. No danger? As much danger as ever—a danger postponed but certain to threaten some day—and then, a fall from a greater height—a certain fall. She was hearing the battered, shattered piano of the dive.
"For pity's sake Mrs. Palmer!" cried Brent, in a low voice.
She started. The beautiful room, the environment of luxury and taste and comfort came back.
Gourdain interrupted and then Palmer.
The four went to the Cafe Anglais for dinner. Brent announced that he was going to the Riviera soon to join a party of friends. "I wish you would visit me later," said he, with a glance that included them all and rested, as courtesy required, upon Susan. "There's room in my villa—barely room."
"We've not really settled here," said Susan. "And we've taken up French seriously."
"The weather's frightful," said Palmer, with a meaning glance at her. "I think we ought to go."
But her expression showed that she had no intention of going, no sympathy with Palmer's desire to use this excellent, easy ladder of Brent's offering to make the ascent into secure respectability.