“I'm sorry, Jacob.” She looked up now and threw out her hands. “But you couldn't understand. I couldn't look at that film, at myself doing those things. It's a thing that's—well, Jacob, it is repellent to me now. It's a thing I wish I hadn't done. I thought I believed it—your theory of freedom, naturalness, all that. I don't believe it. But all the same I'm on record there. The most conspicuous girl in the United States—from what you say—'
“Easily that, Sue. By to-morrow.”
“—picturing a philosophy I don't believe in. I've been daring almost to forget it. Now you're bringing it home to me. It is branded on me now. God knows what it is going to mean! Of course it will follow me into my home here. And you know what people will think and say—these, people”—she indicated the orderly street with a sweep of a fine arm and hand—“they'll think and talk of me as a girl who has done what no decent girl can do and stay decent—”
She stopped, choking. He was still coolly observing her.
“Yes,” he said again, “I'm disappointed. I'm afraid it's just as well for you to give up. You've lost something, Sue.”
He rose. And she let him go in silence; stood looking after him until he disappeared around the corner. Then she went up to her room.
The children were still there, serenely happy in unheard-of mischief. They had all her dancing clothes spread out on the bed.
She closed the door. The girls giggled nervously; she hardly saw them. She lifted up the Russian costume and fingered the bright-colored silk. Dreams came to her mind's eye. She looked at the little boots of red leather.
“I wonder,” she murmured.
“Please dance for us,” begged Miriam shyly, at her side. She hardly heard.