Merle took her cue instantly. She was accustomed to playing her part in whatever impromptu scene their conversation might evoke.
“We were fools,” bitter mockery curling her pretty lips; “if we hadn’t known beforehand—but we knew—we courted the danger. And it has worked itself out in the old old way.”
Peter crossed to the window, her back to the room, one hand holding back the velvet hangings, as she brooded out into the black dripping night.
“A man and two girls. What else could we expect? We’re only human beings, tho’ we did occasionally rise to immortality on the wings of swank.”
With an effort Merle retained her gravity: “Can’t we throw him out even now?” she pleaded.
But without turning, the other shook her head. “There would be a difference. Something smashed. It never looks the same after mending. And besides ... we’d miss the excitement.... Ner-no, Merle! once one admits the question of sex——”
“It’s ... rather a pity, though. Do you remember——” Merle broke off. In her voice lingered wistful regrets for the one-time careless happiness they themselves had set out to destroy. “I can’t make out,” she questioned, groping hopelessly, “when it all started, where, why. How we could have allowed it to go so far. If we hadn’t both clung to the pretence that nothing was wrong, we might have stopped it.”
And the harsh reply, so unlike Peter’s usual buoyant tones:
“Stopped his love of you, or my love for him,—which?”