"Of a truth, dark are the ways of women, and mysterious beyond human understanding," she read. "Probably no young artist for a long time has had as meteoric a career on Broadway as Sophie Rouminof. Leaping from comparative obscurity, she has scintillated before us in revue and musical comedy for the last three or four years, and now, at the zenith of her success, when popularity is hers to do what she likes with, she goes back to her native element, the obscurity from which she sprang. Some first-rate artists have got religion, philanthropy, or love, and have renounced the footlights for them; but Sophie is doing so for no better reason, it is said, than that she is écœuré of us and our life—the life of any and all great cities. A well-known impresario informs us that a week or two ago he asked her to name her own terms for a new contract; but she would have nothing to do with one on any terms. And now she has slipped back into the darkness of space and time, like one of her own magnificent opals, and the bill and boards of the little Opera House will know her name and fascinating personality no more."
The faint smile deepened in Sophie's eyes.
"It's true, isn't it, Sophie?" Martha asked, as Sophie did not speak when she had finished reading.
"I suppose it is," Sophie said. "But your paper doesn't say what made me écœuré—sick to the heart, that is—of the life over there, Martha. And that's the main thing.... It got me down so, I thought I'd never sing again. But there's one thing I'd like you to tell people for me, Martha: Mr. Armitage was always goodness itself to me. He didn't even ask me to go away with him. He did make love to me, and I was just a silly little girl. I didn't know then men go on like that without meaning much.... I wanted to be a singer, and I made up my mind to go away when he did.... Afterwards I lost my voice. My heart wouldn't sing any more. I wanted to come home.... That's all I knew.... I wanted to come home.... And I came."
Martha went to her. Her arms went round Sophie's neck.
"My lamb," she whispered.
Sophie rested against her for a moment. Then she kissed one of the bare arms she had watched working the iron so vigorously.
"We'd best not think of it, Mother M'Cready," she said.
"All right, dearie!"
Martha withdrew her arms and went back to the hearth. She lifted another iron, held it to her face to judge its heat, and returned to the table. She rubbed the iron on a piece of hessian on a box there, dusted it with a soft rag, and went on with the ironing of her dress.