"Did I?" He glanced down the shore toward the house. "It feels like lunch-time." He rose.
"What did you mean by what you said?"
"When you have thought about your case a while longer, we'll talk of it again—if you wish. But until you've thought, talking is a waste of time."
She rose, stood staring out to sea. He was observing her, a faint smile about his lips. He said:
"Why bother about a career? After all, kept woman is a thoroughly respectable occupation—or can be made so by any preacher or justice of the peace. It's followed by many of our best women—those who pride themselves on their high characters—and on their pride."
"I could not belong to a man unless I cared for him," said she. "I tried it once. I shall never do it again."
"That sounds fine," said he. "Let's go to lunch."
"You don't believe me?"
"Do you?"
She sank down upon the sand and burst into a wild passion of sobs and tears. When her fight for self-control was over and she looked up to apologize for her pitiful exhibition of weakness—and to note whether she had made an impression upon his sympathies—she saw him just entering the house, a quarter of a mile away. To anger succeeded a mood of desperate forlornness. She fell upon herself with gloomy ferocity. She could not sing. She had no brains. She was taking money—a disgracefully large amount of money—from Stanley Baird under false pretenses. How could she hope to sing when her voice could not be relied upon? Was not her throat at that very moment slightly sore? Was it not always going queer? She—sing! Absurd. Did Stanley Baird suspect? Was he waiting for the time when she would gladly accept what she must have from him, on his own terms? No, not on his terms, but on the terms she herself would arrange—the only terms she could make. No, Stanley believed in her absolutely—believed in her career. When he discovered the truth, he would lose interest in her, would regard her as a poor, worthless creature, would be eager to rid himself of her. Instead of returning to the house, she went in the opposite direction, made a circuit and buried herself in the woods beyond the Shrewsbury. She was mad to get away from her own company; but the only company she could fly to was more depressing than the solitude and the taunt and sneer and lash of her own thoughts. It was late in the afternoon before she nerved herself to go home. She hoped the others would have gone off somewhere; but they were waiting for her, Stanley anxious and Cyrilla Brindley irritated. Her eyes sought Keith. He was, as usual, the indifferent spectator.