"Do you believe that?"
"I know it."
She nodded slowly, the violet-gray eyes pensive. "Birds in the strong wind—that's what we are. Driven this way or that—or quite beaten down. But the wind doesn't change sparrow to eagle—or eagle to gull—does it?"
She had removed her coat and was seated on an oval lounge gazing into the open fire. He was standing before it, looking taller and stronger than ever, in a gray lounging suit. A cigarette depended loosely from the corner of his mouth. He said abruptly:
"How are you getting on with your acting?"
She glanced in surprise.
"Gourdain," Brent explained. "He had to talk to somebody about how wonderful you are. So he took to writing me—two huge letters a week—all about you."
"I'm fond of him. And he's fond of Clélie. She's my——"
"I know all," he interrupted. "The tie between them is their fondness for you. Tell me about the acting."
"Oh—Clélie and I have been going to the theater every few days—to help me with French. She is mad about acting, and there's nothing I like better."