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Rather it was cold, appraising even, if he had known it, despairing. Lethway had been busy. She had been in the back of his mind rather often, but other things had crowded her out. This new glimpse of her fired him again, however. And she had a new quality that thrilled even through the callus of his soul.
When he left her her once clear, careless glance had a suggestion of furtiveness in it. That afternoon she packed her trunk and sent it to an address he had given her. In her packing she came across the stick of cold cream, still in the pocket of the middy blouse. She flung it, as hard as she could, across the room. She paid her bill with money Lethway had given her.
Unconscious imitator that she was, she stole Edith's former recklessness, and added to it something of her own dash and verve. Lethway, standing in the wings, knew she was not and never would be Edith. She was not fine enough. Edith at her best had frolicked. Mabel romped, was almost wanton. He cut out the string music at the final rehearsal. It did not fit.
Once, in a white sweater over a running shirt, he went to the gymnasium and found her there. She had on a "gym" suit of baggy bloomers and the usual blouse. He backed away from the door hastily. At first he was jealous of Lethway. Then that passed. She confided to him that she did not like the manager. After that he was sorry for him. He was sorry for any one she did not like.
They had, at last, only in common their room, their struggle, the contacts of their daily life. And Lethway was now always in the background. He took her for quiet meals and brought her home early. He promised her that sometime he would see that she got back home. "But not just yet," he added as her colour rose. "I'm selfish, Edith. Give me a little time to be happy." That was a new angle.
Converging lines really, destined, through long ages, by every deed that has been done to meet at a certain point and there fuse. Edith had left Mabel, but not to go to Lethway. When nothing else remained that way was open. She no longer felt any horror only a great distaste. But two weeks found her at her limit. She, who had rarely had more than just enough, now had nothing.
He said very little on the way home, but sat well back and eyed her wistful eyes. She chattered to cover his silence of rehearsals, of with reservations of Lethway, of the anticipated London opening. She felt very sad herself. He had been a tie to America, and he had been much more than that. Though she did not realise it, he had had a profound effect on her.
"Why don't you ask Lethway to take you on in the chorus? It would do until you get something else." "I have asked him. He won't do it." Mabel was still standing in front of the mirror. She threw her head forward so her short hair covered her face, and watched the effect carefully. Then she came over and sat on the bed. "He's a dirty dog," she said. The two girls looked at each other.
She had given up all hope of Cecil's return, and what she became mattered to no one else. Perhaps, more than anything else, she craved companionship. In all her crowded young life she had never before been alone. Companionship and kindness. She would have followed to heel, like a dog, for a kind word. Then she met Lethway. They walked through the park.
That had been one of her attractions to Lethway. "I'll have to go home, of course," she said. "If they don't like me, and decide in a hurry, I I may have to borrow money from you to get back." "Don't worry about that." He put a hand over hers as it lay on the rail, and when she made no effort to release it he bent down and kissed her warm fingers. "Don't you worry about that," he repeated.
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