A long silence; then Mrs.Brindley said: ``Women--the good ones, too--often feel that they've a right to treat men as men treat them.I think almost any woman would feel justified in putting off the crisis.''
``You mean, I might tell him I'd give him my answer when I was independent and had paid back.''
Cyrilla nodded.Mildred relit her cigarette, which she had let go out.``I had thought of that,'' said she.
``But--I doubt if he'd tolerate it.Also''--she laughed with the peculiar intonation that accompanies the lifting of the veil over a deeply and carefully hidden corner of one's secret self--``I am afraid.If I don't marry him, in a few weeks, or months at most, he'll probably find out that I shall never be a great singer, and then I'd not be able to marry him if I wished to.''
``He IS a temptation,'' said Cyrilla.``That is, his money is--and he personally is very nice.''
``I married a man I didn't care for,'' pursued Mildred.``I don't want ever to do that again.It is--even in the best circumstances--not agreeable, not as simple as it looks to the inexperienced girls who are always doing it.''
``Still, a woman can endure that sort of thing,'' said Mrs.Brindley, ``unless she happens to be in love with another man.'' She was observing the unconscious Mildred narrowly, a state of inward tension and excitement hinted in her face, but not in her voice.
``That's just it?'' said Mildred, her face carefully averted.``I--I happen to be in love with another man.''
A spasm of pain crossed Cyrilla's face.
``A man who cares nothing about me--and never will.He's just a friend--so much the friend that he couldn't possibly think of me as--as a woman, needing him and wanting him''--her eyes were on fire now, and a soft glow had come into her cheeks--``and never daring to show it because if I did he would fly and never let me see him again.''
Cyrilla Brindley's face was tragic as she looked at the beautiful girl, so gracefully adjusted to the big chair.She sighed covertly.``You are lovely,'' she said, ``and young--above all, young.''
``This man is peculiar,'' replied Mildred forlornly.
``Anyhow, he doesn't want ME.He knows me for the futile, weak, worthless creature I am.He saw through my bluff, even before I saw through it myself.If it weren't for him, I could go ahead--do the sensible thing--do as women usually do.But--'' She came to a full stop.
``Love is a woman's sense of honor,'' said Cyrilla softly.``We're merciless and unscrupulous--anything--everything--where we don't love.But where we do love, we'll go farther for honor than the most honorable man.That's why we're both worse and better than men--and seem to be so contradictory and puzzling.''
``I'd do anything for him,'' said Mildred.She smiled drearily.``And he wants nothing.''
She had nothing more to say.She had talked herself out about Stanley, and her mind was now filled with thoughts that could not be spoken.As she rose to go to bed, she looked appealingly at Cyrilla.Then, with a sudden and shy rush she flung her arms round her and kissed her.``Thank you--so much,'' she said.
``You've done me a world of good.Saying it all out loud before YOU has made me see.I know my own mind, now.''
She did not note the pathetic tenderness of Cyrilla's face as she said, ``Good night, Mildred.'' But she did note the use of her first name--and her own right first name--for the first time since they had known each other.She embraced and kissed her again.``Good night, Cyrilla,'' she said gratefully.
As she entered Jennings's studio the next day he looked at her; and when Jennings looked, he saw--as must anyone who lives well by playing upon human nature.
He did not like her expression.She did not habitually smile; her light-heartedness, her optimism, did not show themselves in that inane way.But this seriousness of hers was of a new kind, of the kind that bespeaks sobriety and saneness of soul.And that kind of seriousness--the deep, inward gravity of a person whose days of trifling with themselves and with the facts of life, and of being trifled with, are over--would have impressed Jennings equally had she come in laughing, had her every word been a jest.
``No, I didn't come for a lesson--at least not the usual kind,'' said she.
He was not one to yield without a struggle.Also he wished to feel his way to the meaning of this new mood.He put her music on the rack.``We'll begin where we--''
``This half-hour of your time is mine, is it not?''
said she quietly.``Let's not waste any of it.Yesterday you told me that I could not hope to make a career because my voice is unreliable.Why is it unreliable?''
``Because you have a delicate throat,'' replied he, yielding at once where he instinctively knew he could not win.
``Then why can I sing so well sometimes?''
``Because your throat is in good condition some days --in perfect condition.''
``It's the colds then--and the slight attacks of colds?''
``Certainly.''
``If I did not catch colds--if I kept perfectly well --could I rely on my voice?''
``But that's impossible,'' said he.
``Why?''
``You're not strong enough.''
``Then I haven't the physical strength for a career?''
``That--and also you are lacking in muscular development.But after several years of lessons--''
``If I developed my muscles--if I became strong--''
``Most of the great singers come from the lower classes--from people who do manual labor.They did manual labor in their youth.You girls of the better class have to overcome that handicap.''
``But so many of the great singers are fat.''
``Yes, and under that fat you'll find great ropes of muscle--like a blacksmith.''
``What Keith meant,'' she said.``I wonder--Why do I catch cold so easily? Why do I almost always have a slight catch in the throat? Have you noticed that I nearly always have to clear my throat just a little?''
Her expression held him.He hesitated, tried to evade, gave it up.``Until that passes, you can never hope to be a thoroughly reliable singer,'' said he.
``That is, I can't hope to make a career?''
