She winced a little, and her brows protested. “You remind me of a surgeon,” she said; “but that’s what I need—that’s what attracted me to you in your book. It’s all so calm and simple and scientific. It made me realize for the first time what I was—it and Ibsen’s ‘Doll’s House.’ I was nothing but a plaything, a parasite, a mistress, a doll.” She bowed her head in shame. The warm color flooding her cheeks was as flawless as that in the finest tinted bisque.
“What you say is very, very interesting,” murmured Hallton; and she knew from his changed tone that the fact of her beauty had at last been borne in upon him.
With renewed confidence, almost with boldness, she lifted her head and continued: “You see, I was married when I was only eighteen—just out of boarding-school. I was already sick of hearing about love; everybody made love to me.”
“Of course,” said Hallton, slightly sarcastic.
“I couldn’t help that, could I?” she complained, turning the depths of her gold-brown eyes full upon him.
He lowered his own eyes and pursed his lips.
“No, of course not,” he admitted. “And then, when you realized that you were—inconveniently situated, you decided to imitate Nora in the ‘Doll’s House,’ and get out? Is that it?”
“Well, yes; but—”
“So you explained to your husband how you felt, and left him?”
“I didn’t exactly explain; my thoughts seemed to be all mixed up: I thought it would be better to write, after I’d thought a little more.” Again she allowed the glory of her eyes to be her best apologist. “I was going to write as soon as I’d had a talk with you. You see, I came away only two hours ago, and Harry—my husband—will just think I’ve gone to visit somewhere.” Her beauty made a confident appeal that he would sanction her position.