"I'm the last woman in the world ever to think of getting out of my groove," said Cally, her cheek upon her hand.
And then, with no premeditation at all, there came strange words from her, words clothing with unlessoned ease thoughts that certainly she had never formulated for Hugo Canning.
"And yet I feel that it might have been different. I've felt--lately--as if I haven't had much of a chance.... I think I have a mind, or had one ... some--some spirit and independence, too. But I wasn't trained to express myself that way; that was all ironed down flat in me. I never had any education, except what was superficial--showy. I was never taught to think, or to do anything--or to have any part in serious things. No one ever told me that I ought to justify my existence, to pay my way. Nobody ever thought of me as fit to have any share in anything useful or important--fit for any responsibility.... No, life for me was to be like butterflies flying, and my part was only to make myself as ornamental as I could...."
V. Vivian, who wrote articles about the Huns in newspapers, stood at the Cooney mantel. He did not move at all; the man's gaze upon her half-averted face did not wink once. His own face, this girl had thought, was one for strange expressions; but she might have thought the look it wore now stranger than any she had ever seen there....
"Maybe, it's that way with all women, more or less--only it seems to have been always more with me.... Money!" said the low hurried voice--"how I've breathed it in from the first moment I can remember. Money, money, money!... Has it been altogether my fault if I've measured everything by it, supposed that it was the other name for happiness--taken all of it I could get? I've always taken, you see--never given. I never gave anything to anybody in my life. I never did anything for anybody in my life. I'm a grown woman--an adult human being--but I'm not of the slightest use to anybody. I've held out both hands to life, expecting them to be filled, kept full...."
She paused and was deflected by a fleeting memory, something heard in a church, perhaps, long ago....
"Isn't there," she asked, "something in the Bible about that?--horse-leech's daughters--or something?--always crying 'Give, give'?..."
There was a perceptible pause.
"Well--something of the sort, I believe...."
She had seemed to have the greatest confidence that, if anything of the sort was in the Bible, this man would know it instantly. However, his tone caught her attention, and she raised her eyes. Mr. V.V.'s face was scarlet.