"Well, I don't feel like talking to-night; do you?"
They talked every night, regularly—talked about dresses, about religion, about other people's love affairs, and other women's indiscretions. Sally described hats she had seen on rich women shopping at Knightsbridge; Janet told questionable stories about the lives of models and art students, Sally listening with wondering eyes, needing sometimes to have them explained to her more graphically in order really to understand. So they would continue, in the dark, till one or the other asked a question and, receiving no answer, would turn over on her side, and the next moment be oblivious of everything.
"What's particularly the matter to-night?" persisted Janet. "Sorry you told Mr. Arthur you didn't love him?"
"I don't know."
"I believe you are."
There was no such belief in her mind. She knew it would draw the truth. She used it.
"No, I'm not," said Sally, decidedly. "I'm not sorry."
"Then what are you so depressed about?"
"Am I depressed?" She sat up again and turned her pillow. "Oh, I haven't said my prayers yet." She began to throw off the bed-clothes.
"Well, you're not going to get out of bed, are you?"