"I think I'll go up-stairs and take a nap," said Rosalind hastily. "I have a slight headache."
CHAPTER IX
THE ASCENDING SCALE
Rosalind did not have a headache, and she did not take a nap. Instead, when she had closed the door of her room she faced herself in the mirror.
"You are becoming a great liar," she said bluntly.
With the fidelity of a movie, the image in the mirror returned the compliment.
"On second thought," said Rosalind, "I withdraw that. You are not becoming a great liar—you are a great liar."
The lips of the animated image assured her that the amendment was accepted.
"You have lied about little things, big things, foolish things, serious things—everything. I detest lying. It is cowardly, vulgar, and demoralizing. Worse than that, it's troublesome. But"—she sighed softly—"occasionally it is necessary."
She turned abruptly away from the image, went to a writing-desk, and spent several minutes with a pen and a sheet of paper. When she had reviewed her composition with care, she folded it into small compass, slipped it into a vanity-box, and snapped the lid smartly.