During the winter Miss Clergy had become more and more insensible to everything save the fact that Thurley Precore was a prima donna and she had achieved her aim. Such matters as vacations were left in Thurley’s hands.
Ernestine had decided her work was going stale, so a California school where only a handful of the wise and great assembled took her westward with scarcely time to say good-by, Caleb complained.
Caleb devoted himself to emotional war charities since they sold his books—particularly when he would stand in the Belgian booth decorated with streamers like a true harlequin and, fountain pen in hand, await the onslaught of damsels demanding he would autograph their copies of his novels.
Lissa also gave up her time to following the wake of these functions, since she looked well in lace gowns and the supposed patriotic charity on her part bore rich returns in the way of pupils. Watching Lissa, Thurley became aware of another truth: to be an intriguer in art or any other capacity requires that one be not a fool but possessed of shrewd talents and determination. It takes much time and foresight to be successful in this bent, but if one follows this doubtful path to achieving distinction one has little time left with which to pursue the ethical path of sincere work which wins its own reward.
Besides being an intriguer, Lissa reflected Mark’s fame. She never lost an opportunity with which to have their names associated, to call herself a “romantic old sister to the dear lad,” or appear at his recitals to sing some lightweight thing with the high, phenomenal note which alone won applause.
“It seems to me,” Collin said to Thurley one June afternoon when they were enduring a recital of Lissa’s songs at a lawn fête, “that God started in to give Lissa a wonderful voice. He began with this tiptop note and then, as He realized what she was bound to be in spite of every one concerned, He did not bestow anything else on her, but she must have slipped down to earth pirating that note for surely it was meant to be taken away from her!”
Thurley nodded her gratitude for his expression and Polly, who was sitting on Collin’s other side, gave vent to an impudent giggle.
“Thurley, did you know people say that ‘Miss Precore is a recluse’?” Polly asked her a moment later. “That she refuses to sing for charity?”
“Of course Miss Precore has not worked all winter, oh, no,” Thurley’s temper flared up. “Polly and Collin, I tell you both that I am tired even to my professional expression. Look at Lissa—look at Mark—look here,” she began, pointing out other salubrities and celebrities who were murmuring or warbling “poor bleeding Europe” in properly guttural tones.
Polly was thoughtful and when Collin roused her to explain why, she said, “Suppose we go to war, Thurley, what then?”