The Price She Paid [88]
his classical, impassive face.
``What puzzles me,'' she went on, ``is why you interest yourself in as vain and shallow and vacillating a woman as I am. You don't care for my looks--and that's all there is to me.''
``Don't pause to be contradicted,'' said he.
She was in a fine humor now. ``You might at least have said I was up to the female average, for I am. What have they got to offer a man but their looks? Do you know why I despise men?''
``Do you?''
``I do. And it's because they put up with women as much as they do--spend so much money on them, listen to their chatter, admire their ridiculous clothes. Oh, I understand why. I've learned that. And I can imagine myself putting up with anything in some one man I happened to fancy strongly. But men are foolish about the whole sex--or all of them that have a shadow of a claim to good looks.''
``Yes, the men make fools of themselves,'' admitted he. ``But I notice that the men manage somehow to make the careers, and hold on to the money and the power, while the women have to wheedle and fawn and submit in order to get what they want from the men. There's nothing to be said for your sex. It's been hopelessly corrupted by mine. For all the talk about the influence of woman, what impression has your sex made upon mine? And your sex--it has been made by mine into exactly what we wished it to be. Take my advice, get out of your sex. Abandon it, and make a career.''
After a while she recalled with a start the events of less than an hour ago--events that ought to have seemed wildly exciting, arousing the deepest and strongest emotions. Yet they had made no impression upon her. Absolutely none. She had no horror in the thought that she had been the victim of a bigamist; she had no elation over her release into freedom and safety. She wondered whether this arose from utter frivolousness or from indifference to the trifles of conventional joys, sorrows, agitations, excitements which are the whole life of most people--that indifference which is the cause of the general opinion that men and women who make careers are usually hardened in the process.
As she lay awake that night--she had got a very bad habit of lying awake hour after hour--she suddenly came to a decision. But she did not tell Keith for several days. She did it in this way:
``Don't you think I'm looking better?'' she asked.
``You're sleeping again,'' said he.
``Do you know why? Because my mind's at rest. I've decided to accept your offer.''
``And my terms?'' said he, apparently not interested by her announcement.
``And your terms,'' assented she. ``You are free to stop whenever the whim strikes you; I must do exactly as you bid. What do you wish me to do?''
``Nothing at present,'' replied he. ``I will let you know.''
She was disappointed. She had assumed that something-- something new and interesting, probably irritating, perhaps enraging, would occur at once. His indifference, his putting off to a future time, which his manner made seem most hazily indefinite, gave her the foolish and collapsing sense of having broken through an open door.
VII
THE first of September they went up to town. Stanley left at once for his annual shooting trip; Donald Keith disappeared, saying--as was his habit-- neither what he was about nor when he would be seen again. Mrs. Brindley summoned her pupils and her musical friends. Mildred resumed the lessons with Jennings. There was no doubt about it, she had astonishingly improved during the summer. There had come--or, rather, had come back--into her voice the birdlike quality, free, joyous, spontaneous, that had not been there since her father's death and the family's downfall. She was glad that her arrangement with Donald Keith was of such a nature that she was really not bound to go on with it--if he should ever come back and remind her of what she had said. Now that Jennings was enthusiastic--giving just and deserved praise, as her own ear and Mrs. Brindley assured her, she was angry at herself for having tolerated
``What puzzles me,'' she went on, ``is why you interest yourself in as vain and shallow and vacillating a woman as I am. You don't care for my looks--and that's all there is to me.''
``Don't pause to be contradicted,'' said he.
She was in a fine humor now. ``You might at least have said I was up to the female average, for I am. What have they got to offer a man but their looks? Do you know why I despise men?''
``Do you?''
``I do. And it's because they put up with women as much as they do--spend so much money on them, listen to their chatter, admire their ridiculous clothes. Oh, I understand why. I've learned that. And I can imagine myself putting up with anything in some one man I happened to fancy strongly. But men are foolish about the whole sex--or all of them that have a shadow of a claim to good looks.''
``Yes, the men make fools of themselves,'' admitted he. ``But I notice that the men manage somehow to make the careers, and hold on to the money and the power, while the women have to wheedle and fawn and submit in order to get what they want from the men. There's nothing to be said for your sex. It's been hopelessly corrupted by mine. For all the talk about the influence of woman, what impression has your sex made upon mine? And your sex--it has been made by mine into exactly what we wished it to be. Take my advice, get out of your sex. Abandon it, and make a career.''
After a while she recalled with a start the events of less than an hour ago--events that ought to have seemed wildly exciting, arousing the deepest and strongest emotions. Yet they had made no impression upon her. Absolutely none. She had no horror in the thought that she had been the victim of a bigamist; she had no elation over her release into freedom and safety. She wondered whether this arose from utter frivolousness or from indifference to the trifles of conventional joys, sorrows, agitations, excitements which are the whole life of most people--that indifference which is the cause of the general opinion that men and women who make careers are usually hardened in the process.
As she lay awake that night--she had got a very bad habit of lying awake hour after hour--she suddenly came to a decision. But she did not tell Keith for several days. She did it in this way:
``Don't you think I'm looking better?'' she asked.
``You're sleeping again,'' said he.
``Do you know why? Because my mind's at rest. I've decided to accept your offer.''
``And my terms?'' said he, apparently not interested by her announcement.
``And your terms,'' assented she. ``You are free to stop whenever the whim strikes you; I must do exactly as you bid. What do you wish me to do?''
``Nothing at present,'' replied he. ``I will let you know.''
She was disappointed. She had assumed that something-- something new and interesting, probably irritating, perhaps enraging, would occur at once. His indifference, his putting off to a future time, which his manner made seem most hazily indefinite, gave her the foolish and collapsing sense of having broken through an open door.
VII
THE first of September they went up to town. Stanley left at once for his annual shooting trip; Donald Keith disappeared, saying--as was his habit-- neither what he was about nor when he would be seen again. Mrs. Brindley summoned her pupils and her musical friends. Mildred resumed the lessons with Jennings. There was no doubt about it, she had astonishingly improved during the summer. There had come--or, rather, had come back--into her voice the birdlike quality, free, joyous, spontaneous, that had not been there since her father's death and the family's downfall. She was glad that her arrangement with Donald Keith was of such a nature that she was really not bound to go on with it--if he should ever come back and remind her of what she had said. Now that Jennings was enthusiastic--giving just and deserved praise, as her own ear and Mrs. Brindley assured her, she was angry at herself for having tolerated