Patience leaned back in her luxurious chair, and watched the old woman polish the pretty nails. Rosita babbled, and Patience watched her face closely. Its colouring was as fresh, its contours as perfect as ever, but there was a faint touch of hardness somewhere, and the eyes held more secrets than they had two years ago. They were the eyes of the wanton. For a moment Patience forgot her surroundings. Her mind flew back to the old days, to the rickety buggy with the two contented innocent little girls, then, by a natural deflection, to her tower and her dreams. She longed passionately for the old Mission, and wondered if Solomon were still alive. Then she thought of Bourke, and came back to the present with a shudder. The woman had gone.
“What is the matter?” asked Rosita. “Is it true—what the men say—that you are not happy with your husband?”
“I hate him,” said Patience.
“Why don’t you get a divorce?”
“I have no grounds.”
“No grounds? Fancy a wife having no grounds!”
“I have not the slightest doubt of his faith.”
“Send him to me.”
“Oh, Rosita! How can you be so coarse?”
“No-o-o-o! You are my old friend. I would do anything for you. Think it over, Patita mia.”