Ora shrugged her shoulders, and when they were in Ida’s bedroom she took off her hat and coat and wandered about aimlessly for a few moments. Ida was almost breathless with impatience and a curious sense of apprehension that vaguely recalled the strange terror Ora had inspired on the day of their meeting. Ora wore a blue frock, and Ida noticed that the yellow room did not dim her fair radiance. If possible she was holding her head higher than usual, her skin “gleamed” more than ever, there was a curious light in her always brilliant eyes, half defiant, half exultant.
“Do sit down!” said Ida sharply, cutting short Ora’s voluble approval of the room. “There, that’s right,” as Ora flung herself into a chair. “Now, fire away. You’re brimming over with something. Do you mean that you’ve left Mark for good and all?”
“Yes.”
“Told him so?”
Ora nodded.
“Did you tell him about Valdobia, or what? For heaven’s sake open up.”
“No, I—I thought I wouldn’t tell him everything at once. I told him that I meant to spend the rest of my life in Europe, and that it was only fair to himself to divorce me—he can do it easily on the ground of desertion—and marry someone who would make a real home for him—make him happy.”
“Ah! Mark’s the sort women marry but don’t fall in love with. And what did he say when you handed him that?”
“He was rather broken up.”
“Really! And you? I always had an idea that when it came to the point you wouldn’t do it. You have high-falutin’ notions about honor, noblesse oblige, and all the rest of it, to say nothing of being really soft, as I once told you. There’s only one thing that would make you hard—to everyone else—and that’s being in love——”