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He was gone, and the next thing she definitely knew she was at the threshold of Cyrilla's room. Cyrilla gave her a tenderly sympathetic glance. She saw herself in a mirror and knew why; her face was gray and drawn, and her eyes lay dully deep within dark circles. "I couldn't do it," she said. "I sent for him to marry him. But I couldn't." "I'm glad," said Cyrilla.
You would fail even as an actress, if you tried that, when you found out that the singing was out of the question." Mildred was impressed. Perhaps she would have been more impressed had she not seen Keith and Mrs. Brindley in the taxi, Keith talking earnestly and Mrs. Brindley listening as if to an oracle. Said she: "Perhaps I'll adopt some of the suggestions." Cyrilla shook her head.
"Well, I am countrified," said Aunt Cyrilla firmly, "and so are you. And what's more, I don't see that it's anything to be ashamed of. You've got some real silly pride about you, Lucy Rose. You'll grow out of it in time, but just now it is giving you a lot of trouble." "The basket is a lot of trouble," said Lucy Rose crossly. "You're always mislaying it or afraid you will.
"I know I'm not not objectionable to her. And how I do love her!" He settled himself at his ease. "I can't believe it's really me. I never thought I'd marry just for love. Did you?" "You're very self-indulgent," said Cyrilla. "You mean I'm marrying her because I can't get her any other way. There's where you're wrong, Mrs. Brindley. I'm marrying her because I don't want her any other way.
"It will be impossible for you entirely to avoid meeting people," said Cyrilla. "You must have some simple explanation about yourself, or you will attract attention and defeat your object." "Lead people to believe that I'm an orphan perhaps of some obscure family who is trying to get up in the world. That is practically the truth." Mrs. Brindley laughed. "Quite enough for New York," said she.
"I'm not really studying," said Cyrilla, tossing the book away. "I'm only pretending to. I'm really just as bored and lonesome as you are. But what else is there to do? We can't stir outside the door; we've nothing to read; we can't make candy since Mrs.
Cyrilla looked pained, broke a melancholy silence to say: "I know you don't mean that. You are too intelligent. You sing too well." "Yes, I mean just that," said Mildred. "A living." "At any rate, don't say it. You give such a false impression." "To whom? Not to Crossley, and not to Moldini, and why should I care what any others think? They are not paying my expenses.
She had come out of the hothouse into the open. At first she thought that Jennings was to be as great a help to her as Cyrilla Brindley. Certainly if ever there was a man with the air of a worker and a place with the air of a workshop, that man and that place were Eugene Jennings and his studio in Carnegie Hall.
"A woman has to," said Cyrilla. "The fight between men and women is so unequal." "I took advantage of him," repeated Mildred. "And he apologized, and I I went on taking the money. I didn't know what else to do. Isn't that dreadful?" "Nothing to be proud of," said Cyrilla. "But a very usual transaction." "And then," pursued Mildred, "I discovered that I that I'd not be able to make a career.
Everybody declared they had never enjoyed a meal more in their lives. Certainly it was a merry one, and Aunt Cyrilla's cooking was never more appreciated; indeed, the bones of the chicken and the pot of preserves were all that was left. They could not eat the preserves because they had no spoons, so Aunt Cyrilla gave them to the little mother.
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