Thurley wondered if this was a strained sort of joke. “Really?” she asked.
At which came a volley of reproaches over the wire to the effect that most assuredly would there be a memorial for Silverheels as well as a headstone; no other animal could ever take his place nor would she ever allow any other animal to make inroads into her heart. She wished his name never to be mentioned; perhaps Thurley would develop sufficiently within the next few years to comprehend that animal tragedies were the hardest to bear!
Which left Thurley feeling like a smacked infant not at all knowing the reason for the smacking.
The hotel suite seemed musty and in bad taste as she wandered about restlessly. She must wait now until Ernestine chose to sail; she must keep away from her and amuse herself. She did not want to worry Miss Clergy with writing of the delay and she had closed her lesson books with an eager hand. Polly was busy doing some sort of hack work, and she supposed Collin would go off to Europe on the steamer they had planned to take. Anyway, she felt a shy reserve in calling him up to find out.
She was halfway angered at being forced into this submissive attitude. When she was a prima donna earning her own money she resolved that she would lead her own life in no half tones. It was all very well to know interesting, famous persons but to be at the mercy of their thousand and one peculiar notions and erratic actions was another matter. She noticed that Collin respected Ernestine’s wishes and Ernestine also respected Collin’s. Save for Caleb’s being in love with Ernestine and thus being rendered somewhat helpless, he followed his own inclinations and permitted Ernestine to do likewise. No one dreamed of telling Bliss Hobart what to do and what not to do and never did any one, although disapproving of Lissa, contemplate trying to reform her. Mark danced as he would and lived as he wished and there was an end of it. And who in the wide world had more latitude than Sam Sparling, who flirted with a duchess one day and had a shop girl driving in his car the next, giving midnight orgies for “the boys” and sending them packing when his nerves gave warning—Sam who flew off to Lake Louise one day, recklessly cancelling engagements, and returning very keen for the green room and the footlights to play for weeks at a time and then “hop across,” as he said, to Paris to rent some crumbling château and have it put in the pink of condition while he was engrossed in reading and rehearsing a new repertoire like a veritable savant. Lucky Sam, Lissa, Mark, Ernestine, Collin, Caleb—all of them for that matter! Thurley’s lips were rebellious of expression as she sat that warm June morning before the window, looking at the Avenue which throbbed with personalities each bent on its own way.
She registered a vow that she, too, would acquire a personality, a hobby, a “phobia,” an intricate set of nerves and a color scheme—dear, yes, there should be no end to her “dew-dabs,” as Hobart named them. She would even have her own perfume, she would “recommend” a certain fabric and have her picture taken in a gown of it and printed in a leading fashion journal. She would rule over her apartment as rigorously as these others ruled over theirs; she would evolve a distinctive form of entertainment—to say nothing of openly indulging in moods and sulks and wild bursts of joy—and cigarettes and liquors if they did not harm her voice. This should be the reward for these snubbed months of being the spectator, dependent on some one else’s bounty.
There likewise came an impulse not worthy of the real Thurley—nevertheless it came as strongly and with as much temptation as all the rest of her tempestuous plans. When she was rich and famous and still beautiful, she would return to the Corners to haunt Dan Birge as he had never dreamed a woman could haunt him. She would have some sort of romantic interest in her life even if she had given her pledge to Miss Clergy never to make the hideous mistake of marriage.
As she sat there, some one tapped at the door and, running to open it, she found Caleb Patmore dressed in motor togs, his goggles pushed up on his forehead and a linen duster buttoned to his chin.
“I suppose you’re in mourning,” he said whimsically, “or have you insulted Ernestine by suggesting it is madness to swelter in town another week while she interviews all the monument makers as to the most fetching feline memorial?”
Thurley gave him a grateful expression. “It does seem foolish.”