And when she had telephoned; “I've had a letter from Chris, Audrey.”
She read it slowly, and he was surprised, when she finally looked up, to find tears in her eyes.
“Poor old Chris!” she said. “I've never told you the story, have I, Clay? Of course I know perfectly well I haven't. There was another woman. I think I could have understood it, perhaps, if she had been a different sort of a woman. But—I suppose it hurt my pride. I didn't love him. She was such a vulgar little thing. Not even pretty. Just—woman.”
He nodded.
“He was fastidious, too. I don't understand it. And he swears he never cared for her. I don't believe he did, either. I suppose there's no explanation for these things. They just happen. It's the life we live, I dare say. When I look back—She's the girl I sent into the mill.”
He was distinctly shocked.
“But, Audrey,” he protested, “you are not seeing her, are you?”
“Now and then. She has fastened herself on me, in a way. Don't scowl like that. She says she is straight now and that she only wants a chance to work. She's off the stage for good. She—danced. That money I got from you was for her. She was waiting, up-stairs. Chris was behind with her rent, and she was going to lose her furniture.”
“That you should have to do such a thing!” he protested. “It's—well, it's infamous.”
But she only smiled.