“Maybe. Or maybe it’s only because I can have things my own way for the first time in my life.”
Elsie looked at her speculatively, wondering how she could get this odd girl to talk about herself. Gita Carteret was a new type in her somewhat limited experience, and it was a confirmed habit to edge everyone she met under an avid and microscopic eye.
“You have met Miss Pleyden,” she began tentatively. “I wonder what you think of her?”
“She’s a good sort. So are several of the other girls she has brought here. Not unlike the San Francisco girls, only more so. But I never could live their life. I fancy I’m old before my time.”
Mrs. Brewster laughed outright. “I never saw anyone look younger! It is difficult to believe you are twenty-two.”
“Well,” said Gita gloomily, “I ought to look forty.”
“But you wouldn’t like to look forty. Come, now, own up.”
“You’re right, I wouldn’t.” Gita was forced to smile. “I suppose that sounded like a grand little pose.”
“I can’t imagine you in a conscious pose of any sort. But, you know, youth can go through a lot without being hopelessly scarred. Otherwise—I have heard vaguely that you had a hard time for a few years, if you’ll pardon me—you wouldn’t look a bare eighteen when you are four years older. I felt very old myself at your age, for I had loved my young husband devotedly; and now I feel, and look, younger, and, I am willing to confide in you, I have almost forgotten the poor man.”
She hoped, by throwing open a window in her own soul, to hear a quick rattling of the shutters opposite, but Gita replied with a frown: “Underground is the best place for husbands as far as my observation goes. I think you were in luck.”