Chad and Rosalie had been her accomplices, no doubt. But though Chad had been hostile, he had been openly so. Julie was reluctant to accuse him of any complicity in so Oriental a plot as that Isabel had woven. But against the whole white race, Rosalie would have lent herself as an instrument of destruction. Julie could see how Isabel would work upon the fury of her jealousy, set up before it everything American that Rosalie might believe was responsible for the abstraction of her husband’s love.
Soon, they had planned, she would be nothing at all but a bundle of flesh, with an appetite—a thing that no human passions could ever reclaim. And when she was wiped out—the shame and horror of her—Barry would be elevated to the place that Isabel was preparing for him. Julie remembered the talk of a paradise. She began to cry again.
She had not seen Barry—for an eternity! She must see him—if only to attempt to make clear to him the things that were in her soul. In the urgency of this desire, everything else was swallowed up. After all there was nothing more that Isabel could do to her. She would go to the party.
While dressing, she studied herself in the glass. An image rose before her—the image of herself that had confronted her on that distant, transported day on the other side of the world, the day she had stepped into life and had offered herself with such magnificence to its designs. Who was to blame? If the Nahalites had had the grace of God—if Isabel—the East—had not hunted her down!
As she was about to leave the room, she turned back, and laid on the table an envelope with some money in it, addressed to Señora Reredo. She picked up her uncle’s letter to mail, and the money for Señor Sansillo, glanced agitatedly around the room for an instant, and hurried out of the house.
Señor Sansillo was upstairs when she reached his house, but he came down immediately when he heard who it was that wished to see him. Julie, pale and tense, stood waiting for him in the doorway of his office.
“I’ve come to tell you that I shall not be here any more!” she said.
He gave a start. “But why?” he asked.
“Because,” the girl flung out, “I am weary of earning my living listening to questionable stories, and having horrible jewelry thrust on me. Here is the money you advanced. Thank you!” She held a roll of bills out to him.
An angry flush swept over his face. “You are suddenly independent, Señorita Dreschell?” he satirically exclaimed.