Thurley caught the drift of his remark. “It’s the devil of a mess,” she repeated clearly, “because we are not bad enough to be all bad and do terrible things that blot out the hurts or not all good so we can be saints with wings and harps for consolation ... we just struggle—most of us.”
“When did you know I was married?”
“The night of my début—like a story, isn’t it?”
“And we were there—’Raine and I—on our wedding trip.” After three years’ attempt at bravado, the real heart of him was allowed to suffer, suffer as it should have done three years ago instead of fanning revengeful temper on as a worthless substitute.
Thurley faced him directly, hugging her long legs under her boy fashion. “I’m not worth it. The best part of me is my voice, Dan. Only the worst part of me isn’t content to have it that way. I’ve worked mighty hard since we said good-by—I’ve known all sorts and conditions of people, great and near great, good and bad—I’ve had all sorts of men make love to me and I’ve encouraged all sorts of men—just so far. I’ve done things no one would approve of my doing and some things that only a few could approve of or understand. Mostly though I’ve worked and worked and I’ve decided that it is either work for me all my days if I’m to keep on singing, or else I’ll stop working and love and be loved, perhaps. But the two do not go hand in hand ... perhaps I’m bitter.”
“She made you promise never to marry,” Dan interrupted; “she is a selfish old woman who wasn’t fair!”
Thurley nodded. “Love made her insane,” she defended.
After a moment Dan said, “Sing for me, Thurley, like you used to—when things were different.”
Reaching out her hand, Thurley held his in simple palship as she sang in a hushed voice the old tunes they both had loved. As she finished, he said with an effort,
“Maybe we better not see each other this summer.”