"But he may have married——"
"God, how I hope so! I shall wish him kingly happiness—and rush back to Stephen Cabot."
Paula could not be stirred by the story this morning. She missed, as never before, some big reality behind the loves of Selma Cross. There was too much of the sense of possession in her story—arm-possession. So readily, could she be transformed into the earthy female, fighting tooth and claw for her own. Paula could hardly comprehend in her present depression, what she had said yesterday about Stephen Cabot's capacity to forgive.... She was glad, when Selma Cross rose, yawned, stretched, and shook herself. The odor of sweet clover was heaviness in the room.... The long, bare arm darted over the reading-table and plucked forth the book Paula loved. The volume had not been hidden; there was no reason why she should not have done this, yet the action hurt the other like a drenching of icy water upon her naked heart.
"Ho-ho—Quentin Charter! So A Damsel Came to Peter?"
"I think—I hear your telephone,—Selma!" Paula managed to say, her voice dry, as if the words were cut from paper.
"Yes, yes, I must go, but here's another story. A rotten cad—but how he can write! I don't mean books—but letters!... He's the one I told you about—the Westerner—while the old man was in the South!"
The last was called from the hall. The heavy door slammed between them.
Paula could not stand—could not keep her mouth from dropping open. Her temples seemed to be cracking apart.... She saw herself in half-darkness—like The Thing last night—beating her breast in the gloom. She felt as if she must laugh—in that same wind-blown, chattering way.