Still, neither moved; Cynthia idly twirled her muff; Jacqueline, her slender hands clasped behind her, stood gazing silently at the floor.
Cynthia said: "That's the trouble with us all. I'm afraid you like this man, Desboro. I tell you that he isn't much good; but if you already like him, you'll go on liking him, no matter what I say or what he does. For it's that way with us, Jacqueline. And where in the world would men find a living soul to excuse them if it were not for us? That seems to be about all we're for—to forgive men what they are—and what they do."
"I don't forgive them," said Jacqueline fiercely; "—or women, either."
"Oh, nobody forgives women! But you will find excuses for some man some day—if you like him. I guess even the best of them require it. But the general run of them have got to have excuses made for them, or no woman would stand for her own honeymoon, and marriages would last about a week. Good-bye, dear."
They kissed.
At the head of the stairs outside, Jacqueline kissed her again.
"How is the play going?" she inquired.
"Oh, it's going."
"Is there any chance for you to get a better part?"
"No chance I care to take. Max Schindler is like all the rest of them."