"I may not be gone long—perhaps only a week or so. In the meanwhile, you're your own mistress."
"You've always let me be that. But I have reasons for wanting to leave New York."
Wray turned and stared at her blankly. "Reasons?"
"Yes. I—I'm a little tired. The life here is so gay. I'm unused to it. It bewilders me."
"I think I understand," he said slowly. "But it can't be helped. I want you to cultivate the McIntyres, the Warringtons, and the Rumsens. Larry will stay here in the hotel for a while. You can call on him."
She fingered the pages of a book beside her. "Then this is final?" she asked.
"Yes—you must do as I say."
He had never before used that tone with her. The warm impulse that had sought this interview was dried at its source. "Very well—I'll stay," she said coldly, "no matter what happens."
He examined her shrewdly.
"You're afraid?" he asked. "That's too bad. I thought I was doing you a service."