“I want to earn my living—I mean to earn my living! And how do you know—after all”—she held Connie at arm’s length—“that Mr. Sorell’s going to approve of what you’ve done? And father won’t accept, unless he does.”
Connie laughed.
“Mr. Sorell will do—exactly what pleases me. Mr. Sorell”—she began to search for a cigarette—“Mr. Sorell is an angel.”
A silence. Connie looked up, rather surprised.
“Don’t you agree?”
“Yes,” said Nora in an odd voice.
Connie observed her. A flickering light began to play in the brown eyes.
“H’m. Have you been doing some Greek already?—stealing a march on me?”
“I had a lesson last week.”
“Had you? The first I’ve heard of it!” Connie fluttered up and down the room in her white dressing-gown, occasionally breaking into a dance-step, as though to work off a superfluity of spirits.