Exultant she went out into a dusk of wind and rain, such as would have swamped her spirit in misery aforetime, and fought her way joyously through it, ending her journey by taking the long flights of the apartment two steps at a time and singing as she sped. Outside the door she had noticed a taxi. In the front room she found Gloria, who had stopped on her way to the theater, stretched on the divan and talking with the turtledoves.
“I looked in to see how you were getting on,” said the actress, eyeing Darcy keenly.
“Splendidly!”
“Everything all right in the gymnasium? Did Andy—er—”
“Oh, yes. It’s all right,” hastily broke in the girl, having no mind to hear her felonies discussed by her flat-mates. “Just as right as right can be.”
“You’re awfully chirpy, considering what a beast of a raw, rainy day it’s been,” observed Helen.
“Is it bad?” said Darcy blandly. “I suppose it is, but I hardly noticed.”
“Another British mail in, I suppose,” conjectured Maud. “That always brightens her up.”
“If there is I haven’t got anything yet,” answered Darcy, who had neglected to consult the morning papers for the incoming steamship entries. Her myth involved so many supporting lies, that it was difficult and ticklish to keep it properly bolstered up.
“Has she told you about the Britisher, Gloria?” asked Helen.