“I’m sure you do sing, though,” he called back as his hostess finally evicted him. “I’m going to send you that song.”
But he didn’t look at her, she noticed, as he said it. Why should he, indeed, when Gloria was in the room? For that matter, men never looked at Darcy. And here was her grievance against the scheme of things exemplified anew.
“There it is,” she complained, waving an awkward arm toward the door through which Mr. Jacob Remsen had vanished. “That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you about.”
“Jack?” puzzled her hostess. “Why, what’s wrong with Jack?”
“Oh, nothing,” replied the girl wearily. “But—did you notice what he did when he left?”
“Offered to send you some music. I thought it was quite polite. Jack’s always courteous.”
“Oh, courteous! He didn’t even look at me.”
“Well, why—”
“That’s it! Why? Why should any man look at me? They don’t. They—they’re strictly neutral in their attitude. And women are—well—just tolerant and friendly. ‘Darcy’s such a nice girl.’ Where does that get you?” fiercely demanded the subject of it. “People don’t really know I’m alive. I might as well be a ghost. I wish I were. At least I’d scare ’em.”
“Don’t try to scare me,” returned the other. “Now list to the voice of wisdom. You complain that people don’t know you’re alive. Why should they? You don’t give out anything—warmth, color, personality. I’m not so sure you are alive. You’re inert.”