"No man is indispensable to—me," she said angrily. Then her face changed and softened, suffused by an extraordinary radiance of youth and vitality. "I mean to say," she murmured, "that no man, yet, has proved himself indispensable, but——"
She looked at Mark, who got up and began to pace the room, much agitated. Her lips were parted, revealing the small, white, resolute-looking teeth. She was reflecting, not without a sense of humour, that Mark was the first man of the many she liked who refused to dance to her piping. The fact allured her.
"I must go," he said abruptly.
"But you will come to-morrow?"
He hesitated, blushing like a girl, but on the morrow he came and found her friendly, genial, the "good sort": a rôle she could sustain to perfection. Mark, on the other hand, felt himself to be dull and irritable. Even the all-absorbing Fenella failed to quicken his wits or pulses. He answered absently some suggestions in regard to the fourth act, staring at the speaker's eyes, as if trying to read their message instead of that of the lips.
"Why do you look at me like that?" she asked in a tone absolutely free from sentiment.
"I am trying to find the real Sybil."
"Sybils are mysteries," she said lightly. "Besides you come here to talk about the play—hein? not about me."
"I come here to talk about the play," he answered slowly, "but I go away to think about you."
"And the thoughts are not always pleasant ones?"