Sheila felt a little relentment. “I know what you thought, and I suppose I oughtn’t to blame you. Actresses ought to get used to being misunderstood, just as trained nurses are. But I hoped you were different. I know I am. I’ve had so much stage loving that it doesn’t mean anything to me. When I get the real I want it to be twice as real as it would have to be for anybody else. Just because I pretend so much I’d have to be awfully in love to love at all.”
“Haven’t you ever loved anybody?” Winfield asked, quite inanely.
She shook her head and answered, with a foolish solemnity. “I thought I was going to, once or twice, but I never did.”
“That’s just like me. I’ve never really loved anybody, either.”
There was such unqualified juvenility in their words that they recognized it themselves. Sheila could not help laughing. He laughed, too, like a cub.
Then Sheila said, with the earnestness of a child playing doll’s house: “You’re too young to love anybody, and I haven’t time yet. I’ve got much too much work ahead of me to waste any time on love.”
“I’ve got a lot of work ahead of me, too,” said Winfield.
“You have?” said Sheila. “What is your work—doctor, lawyer, merchant, chief?”
She was surprised to realize that she had come to know this man pretty well before she knew anything at all about him. She was discussing Winfield’s future before she had heard of his past. Vickery’s introduction had been his only credentials, his only history. And yet she had already rested briefly in his arms. She was surprised further when he said:
“I’m a— That is, my father is— We are Winfield’s Scales.”