Her intellect had faltered; the Shadowy Sister had betrayed; David Cairns had been consummately stupid; Vina Nettleton was soft with dreams, and not to be reckoned with in the world; Vina could tell her woes, but she, Beth Truba, must not scream nor fall. She must face the woman in the other room, sit across a lighted table for an hour, and talk and laugh. Her heart cried out against this, but pride uprose to whip—Beth's iron pride finished under the world's mastery. Slowly, rhythmically, the blows fell. Beth could not run away.
She stretched out her fingers, which were biting into her palms, drenched her face with cold water, breathed for a minute by the open window like a doe in covert…. There was ammonia, and she inhaled the potent fumes….
"_Pale hands I loved Beside the Shalimar——"
hummed the Grey One, from the open sheet on the piano.
Beth faltered at the door, for the song hurled her back to an hour ago with bruising force. She re-entered the little room—to fix her hat….
"You weren't long, Beth," the Grey One said.
"No?… I'm glad of that, but speaking of glad things, let us not forget Torvin."
Beth was already turning out the lights.
"You look a little tired, dear," the Grey One said in the elevator.
"It's the time of day," Beth responded readily. After being in all day, and suddenly deciding to go out, haven't you felt a tension come over you as if you could hardly wait a minute?"