She glanced at him swiftly. “Of course,” she replied. “Is it—about my late hours?”
He shook his head, smiling rather sadly.
“That is only one phase of your rather feverish life, little girl,” he said. “I don’t mean that I want to lecture you or reproach you. I only want to ask you if you are satisfied?”
“Satisfied?” echoed Rita, twirling a tassel that hung from a cushion beside her.
“Yes. You have achieved success in your profession.” He strove in vain to banish bitterness from his voice. “You are a ‘star,’ and your photograph is to be seen frequently in the smartest illustrated papers. You are clever and beautiful and have hosts of admirers. But—are you satisfied?”
She stared absently at the silk tassel, twirling it about her white fingers more and more rapidly. Then:
“No,” she answered softly.
Monte Irvin hesitated for a moment ere bending forward and grasping her hands.
“I am glad you are not satisfied,” he whispered. “I always knew you had a soul for something higher—better.”
She avoided his ardent gaze, but he moved to the settee beside her and looked into the bewitching face.