“I’m expecting the dressmaker.”
“Where are you going to-night?”
“Dinner and theater. It’s a party, or I’d ask you.”
“What did you do yesterday and the day before, and the days before that?”
Eleanor laughed indulgently, and acquainted Carley with a record of her social wanderings during the last few days.
“The same old things—over and over again! Eleanor don’t you get sick of it?” queried Carley.
“Oh yes, to tell the truth,” returned Eleanor, thoughtfully. “But there’s nothing else to do.”
“Eleanor, I’m no better than you,” said Carley, with disdain. “I’m as useless and idle. But I’m beginning to see myself—and you—and all this rotten crowd of ours. We’re no good. But you’re married, Eleanor. You’re settled in life. You ought to do something. I’m single and at loose ends. Oh, I’m in revolt!... Think, Eleanor, just think. Your husband works hard to keep you in this expensive apartment. You have a car. He dresses you in silks and satins. You wear diamonds. You eat your breakfast in bed. You loll around in a pink dressing gown all morning. You dress for lunch or tea. You ride or golf or worse than waste your time on some lounge lizard, dancing till time to come home to dress for dinner. You let other men make love to you. Oh, don’t get sore. You do.... And so goes the round of your life. What good on earth are you, anyhow? You’re just a—a gratification to the senses of your husband. And at that you don’t see much of him.”
“Carley, how you rave!” exclaimed her friend. “What has gotten into you lately? Why, everybody tells me you’re—you’re queer! The way you insulted Morrison—how unlike you, Carley!”
“I’m glad I found the nerve to do it. What do you think, Eleanor?”