“Five years. I stuck it out longer than any of the others.” She spoke as though it were something to be proud of.
“Well, thank God you’re out of it now!”
Again a just perceptible shadow crossed her face. “Yes—I’m out of it now fast enough.”
“And what—if I may ask—are you doing next?”
She brooded a moment behind drooped lids; then, with a touch of hauteur: “I’m going to Paris: to study for the stage.”
“The stage?” Darrow stared at her, dismayed. All his confused contradictory impressions assumed a new aspect at this announcement; and to hide his surprise he added lightly: “Ah—then you will have Paris, after all!”
“Hardly Lady Ulrica’s Paris. It’s not likely to be roses, roses all the way.”
“It’s not, indeed.” Real compassion prompted him to continue: “Have you any—any influence you can count on?”
She gave a somewhat flippant little laugh. “None but my own. I’ve never had any other to count on.”
He passed over the obvious reply. “But have you any idea how the profession is over-crowded? I know I’m trite——”