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Updated: September 21, 2025
Trudy fell on her neck and was in the throes of explaining how grateful she was and how she had an evening dress modelled after one of Gay's sister's, which cost seven hundred dollars before the war, when Gay appeared very debonair and optimistic in his checked suit, velours hat, and toothpick-toed tan shoes, and his pale little eyes were quite animated as he kissed Trudy and dutifully shook hands with Mary, explaining that the Hunters of Arcadia had just offered him a clerical position at the club, ordering supplies and making out bills and so on because he was married, very likely.
After a moment's hesitation she went her own way. When she had lingered about the jewellery counter like a wilful yet not quite wicked child peering down at the wonderful, enchanting things which mocked her empty purse; recalling Gay's first flush of romance and devotion; her own clever, untiring methods of pushing him into the front ranks; Mary and Mary's little secret, so unsafe in Trudy's keeping; Beatrice, who did not know quite how many rings she possessed; the whole maddening and really uninteresting tangle she wondered if she could force Gay to buy her a ring.
The letters from Allison and Kitty were profusely illustrated all around the margins, and by the time Lloyd had read them, and Gay's ridiculous summary of school news, she felt as if she had been on a visit to Warwick Hall, and had seen all the girls. The next letter was from Joyce, a good thick one.
In fact, he avoided Mary as he avoided Steve, for it was Mary who had spent the last moments with Trudy, and whatever was said remained a most uncomfortable mystery, to Gay's way of thinking. She had remained at the apartment to help Gay through his sorrow, looking at him with brief scorn as he stammered inane thanks, scantily concealing his impatience to sample a basket of wine just sent in.
"I don't think he wants to go," retorted Kesiah rather snappily, and opening the book again she began to read. For an hour her voice droned steadily in the firelight, while Molly, with her head against Mrs. Gay's knee, looked through the casement window to where the October roses bloomed and dropped in the squares of the Italian garden.
No sound, however soft, Nor gentlest echo telleth when she treads, But every motion of her shape doth seem Hallowed by silence. But however beautiful the description, defend me from meeting with the original! The fly that sips treacle Is lost in the sweets; So he that tastes woman Ruin meets. The song is Gay's, not mine, and a bitter-sweet it is. Like life and death in disproportion met.
Gay who writes 'em for us'll have the worry and he's got it too, what with Rich's scraping and saving and his insisting upon Mr. Quin playing in the opera." Lavinia now saw why Gay had been depressed. But Mr. Quin the surly, who only played in tragedies, what had he to do with Gay's opera? She put the question to Mrs. Egleton. "Nothing at all. He hasn't any more idea of singing than an old crow.
The interview concluded with Trudy's going to the kitchen for some kind of a supper and Gay's driving off post haste to see Beatrice. When Steve returned from his hurried two-day trip he asked Beatrice if she realized the amount of money she was spending. "Why should I?" she answered, aggrievedly.
Great Turnstile led to Lincoln's Inn Fields, and in Portugal Row on the south side of the "Fields" was the Duke's Theatre. Association of ideas was too strong to be resisted. Thinking of the theatre, how could she help also thinking of Gay's encouragement as to herself of Lancelot Vane and his tragedy? Another thought was lurking at the back of her mind.
For months Trudy's eyes had glittered greedily as she observed Gay's clientele with their jewelled bags, rings, brooches, watches, and what not yet she possessed not a single gem. She had often enough asked Gay for one, to which he would sneer: "What do you want with a diamond? You know I'm always on the ragged edge of failing!" "Because you gamble and drink and are a born fool," she protested.
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