“Full of secrets.”
“Ah, but there you are wrong—quite wrong, my friend. [44] ]Most of their life they ’ave given to study. What secret’ could they possess?”
She hated herself while she said it, hated Kane and the stage and the success she had made. But most of all she hated Elizabeth Parsons for allowing Parsinova to dominate her. To this one man she wanted so devoutly to reveal herself as she was. Ridiculous, of course, the desire—for it was Parsinova who charmed him. That was all too evident.
The hours she loved best were those in which he told her of his travels, his life in the West. In that she could evince an interest that was sincere. She could picture him in rough flannel shirt and corduroy trousers, hobnobbing with the miners, one of them. He was the true democrat, eager to learn first-hand instead of living by proxy.
She would draw him out, welcoming the opportunity to be for the moment Elizabeth Parsons, if only as a listener.
When he left her at the theater that evening, he startled her by saying abruptly:
“I’m coming to dine with you next Sunday.”
It was just as he helped her out of the car and she stopped short, hand still in his. “You—are coming—?”
“That’s it, in your home. Oh, I’ve found out where you live. But I had a notion that I’d like you to tell me.”
“How—did you find out?”