She was thinking over a passage
of their conversation.
"Mrs. Fiorsen, tell me about yourself."
"Why? What do you want to know?"
"Your marriage?"
"I made a fearful mistake--against my father's wish. I haven't seen my
husband for months; I shall never see him again if I can help it. Is
that enough?"
"And you love him?"
"No."
"It must be like having your head in chancery. Can't you get it out?"
"No."
"Why?"
"Divorce-court! Ugh! I couldn't!"
"Yes, I know--it's hellish!"
Was he, who gripped her hand so hard and said that, really the same
nonchalant young man who had leaned out of the carriage window, gurgling
with laughter? And what had made the difference? She buried her face
in the heliotrope, whose perfume seemed the memory of his visit; then,
going to the piano, began to play. She played Debussy, McDowell, Ravel;
the chords of modern music suited her feelings just then. And she was
still playing when her father came in. During these last nine months
of his daughter's society, he had regained a distinct measure of
youthfulness, an extra twist in his little moustache, an extra touch of
dandyism in his clothes, and the gloss of his short hair. Gyp stopped
playing at once, and shut the piano.
"Mr. Summerhay's been here, Dad. He was sorry to miss you."
There was an appreciable pause before Winton answered:
"My dear, I doubt it.
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