Of course that was just what it did depend upon. And suddenly I determined to tell her so.
“Frances,” I demanded, “are you still there—at that place?”
“At L'Abbaye. Yes.”
“You sing there every night?”
“Yes.”
“Why do you do it? You know—”
“I know everything. But you know, too. I told you I sang there because I must earn my living in some way and that seems to be the only place where I can earn it. They pay me well there, and the people—the proprietors—are considerate and kind, in their way.”
“But it isn't a fit place for you. And you don't like it; I know you don't.”
“No,” quietly. “I don't like it.”
“Then don't do it. Give it up.”