She wandered aimlessly on--around the upper reservoir where the strong breeze freshened her through and through and made her feel less forlorn in spite of her chicken heart.She crossed the bridge at the lower end and came down toward the East Drive.A taxicab rushed by, not so fast, however, that she failed to recognize Donald Keith and Cyrilla Brindley.They were talking so earnestly--Keith was talking, for a wonder, and Mrs.Brindley listening--that they did not see her.She went straight home.But as she was afoot, the journey took about half an hour.Cyrilla was already there, in a negligee, looking as if she had not been out of the little library for hours.She was writing a letter.Mildred strolled in and seated herself.
Cyrilla went on writing.Mildred watched her impatiently.She wished to talk, to be talked to, to be consoled and cheered, to hear about Donald Keith.Would that letter never be finished? At last it was, and Cyrilla took a book and settled herself to reading.There was a vague something in her manner--a change, an attitude toward Mildred--that disturbed Mildred.Or, was that notion of a change merely the offspring of her own somber mood? Seeing that Mrs.Brindley would not begin, she broke the silence herself.Said she awkwardly:
``I've decided to move.In fact, I've got to move.''
Cyrilla laid down the book and regarded her tran-quilly.``Of course,'' said she.``I've already begun to arrange for someone else.''
Mildred choked, and the tears welled into her eyes.
She had not been mistaken; Cyrilla had changed toward her.Now that she had no prospects for a brilliant career, now that her money was gone, Cyrilla had begun to--to be human.No doubt, in the course of that drive, Cyrilla had discovered that Keith had no interest in her either.Mildred beat down her emotion and was soon able to say in a voice as unconcerned as Cyrilla's:
``I'll find a place to-morrow or next day, and go at once.''
``I'll be sorry to lose you,'' said Mrs.Brindley, ``but I agree with you that you can't get settled any too soon.''
``You don't happen to know of any cheap, good place?'' said Mildred.
``If it's cheap, I don't think it's likely to be good--in New York,'' replied Cyrilla.``You'll have to put up with inconveniences--and worse.I'd offer to help you find a place, but I think everything self-reliant one does helps one to learn.Don't you?''
``Yes, indeed,'' assented Mildred.The thing was self-evidently true; still she began to hate Cyrilla.
This cold-hearted New York! How she would grind down her heel when she got it on the neck of New York!
Friendship, love, helpfulness--what did New York and New-Yorkers know of these things? ``Or Hanging Rock, either,'' reflected she.What a cold and lonely world!
``Have you been to see about a position?'' inquired Cyrilla.
Mildred was thrown into confusion.``I can't go--for a--day or so,'' she stammered.``The changeable weather has rather upset my throat.Nothing serious, but I want to be at my best.''
``Certainly,'' said Mrs.Brindley.Her direct gaze made Mildred uncomfortable.She went on: ``You're sure it's the weather?''
``What else could it be?'' demanded Mildred with a latent resentment whose interesting origin she did not pause to inquire into.
``Well, salad, or sauces, or desserts, or cafe au lait in the morning, or candy, or tea,'' said Cyrilla.``Or it might be cigarettes, or all those things--and thin stockings and low shoes--mightn't it?''
Never before had she known Cyrilla to say anything meddlesome or cattish.Said Mildred with a faint sneer, ``That sounds like Mr.Keith's crankiness.''
``It is,'' replied Cyrilla.``I used to think he was a crank on the subject of singing and stomachs, and singing and ankles.But I've been convinced, partly by him, mostly by what I've observed.''
Mildred maintained an icy silence.
``I see you are resenting what I said,'' observed Cyrilla.
``Not at all,'' said Mildred.``No doubt you meant well.''
``You will please remember that you asked me a question.''
So she had.But the discovery that she was clearly in the wrong, that she had invited the disguised lecture, only aggravated her sense of resentment against Mrs.
Brindley.She spent the rest of the afternoon in sorting and packing her belongings--and in crying.She came upon the paper Donald Keith had left.She read it through carefully, thoughtfully, read it to the last direction as to exercise with the machine, the last arrangement for a daily routine of life, the last suggestion as to diet.
``Fortunately all that isn't necessary,'' said she to herself, when she had finished.``If it were, I could never make a career.I'm not stupid enough to be able to lead that kind of life.Why, I'd not care to make a career, at that price.Slavery--plain slavery.''
When she went in to dinner, she saw instantly that Cyrilla too had been crying.Cyrilla did not look old, anything but that, indeed was not old and would not begin to be for many a year.Still, after thirty-five or forty a woman cannot indulge a good cry without its leaving serious traces that will show hours afterward.
At sight of the evidences of Cyrilla's grief Mildred straightway forgot her resentment.There must have been some other cause for Cyrilla's peculiar conduct.
No matter what, since it was not hardness of heart.
It was a sad, even a gloomy dinner.But the two women were once more in perfect sympathy.And afterward Mildred brought the Keith paper and asked Cyrilla's opinion.Cyrilla read slowly and without comment.At last she said:
``He got this from his mother, Lucia Rivi.Have you read her life?''
``No.I've heard almost nothing about her, except that she was famous.''
``She was more than that,'' said Mrs.Brindley.
``She was great, a great personality.She was an almost sickly child and girl.Her first attempts on the stage were humiliating failures.She had no health, no endurance, nothing but a small voice of rare quality.''
