"Yes, that doesn't sound very ideal, does it? But in reality it was rather a wonderful quest. I was looking for a man who could give me all that I conceived necessary for life—who would share it with me in understanding and whom I could care for—deeply." She smiled in self-mockery. "That sounds better, doesn't it? But, unfortunately, I never found him."
"Never?"
There was significance in Mary Compton's eyes—a challenge.
"No, never. And three months ago, when Mr. Barclay asked me to marry him—I had one hundred pounds and my passage left me in the world."
Mrs. Compton sprang to her feet, her hands clasped in consternation.
"Why didn't you tell us—you could have come to us. Oh, no, I know that's nonsense—we're poor as mice. But you could have gone back—you could have danced again and in one night you would have made enough——"
She stopped short, arrested by something that passed over the other's face—a shadow, a wince of physical, deadly pain. "Sigrid, couldn't you——"
"Yes, I could have done that. And the money would have paid for a gorgeous funeral."
"Sigrid—don't joke—be serious——"
"I am serious——" Her voice hardened. "Horribly serious. One night's triumph, if you like—and then the end. That's what I came to tell you. No one else knows except Smithy. It's my secret. It's yours now."