“But why don’t you marry and make an end of it?” asked Yvonne. “I don’t understand.”
“Ask Van. Don’t ask me. There’s somebody else now. Elsie Carnegie, of all people.”
“Poor Dina.”
“Oh, not at all. Dina is not going to break her heart over Van’s infidelities. I’m quite content as I am. Only I’m a fool—there! I ’ve never told you I was a fool before, Yvonne. That’s because you are so sedate and respectable. I’m getting to venerate you.”
“I should like to talk to him seriously about it—for his good.”
“Oh, heavens, my child, he’d be falling in love with you again and having the whole artillery of the Church about his ears!” Yvonne laughed gaily. The talk was doing her good. Geraldine’s forcible phraseology was a tonic after the politer accents of Fulminster. They drifted away unconsciously from the main subject upon which they had started. Geraldine had many things to tell of the doings in the musical world.
“Oh, I wish I was back for a little,” cried poor Yvonne. “Singing in a amateur way is not like singing professionally, is it?”
“I think you are better where you are,” replied Geraldine, seriously, “in spite of all things. It is no use being discontented.”
“Not a bit,” sighed Yvonne. She was silent for a little, and then she turned round to Geraldine.
“I don’t think you would do very well married, Dina. You are too independent. A woman has to give in so much, you know; and do so much pretending, which you could never do.”