"Put it any way you like."
Again he tried to embrace her. She resisted firmly. "Wait,"
said she. "Let me think."
They drove the rest of the way to the upper end of the Park
in silence.
He ordered the driver to turn. He said to her; "Well, do you
get the sack or does the house get the order?"
She was silent.
"Shall I drive you home or shall we stop at Gabe's for a drink?"
"Could I have champagne?" said she.
"Anything you like if you choose right."
"I haven't any choice," said she.
He laughed, put his arm around her, kissed her unresponsive but
unresisting lips. "You're right, you haven't," said he. "It's
a fine sign that you have the sense to see it. Oh, you'll get
on. You don't let trifles stand in your way."
III
AT the lunch hour the next day Mary Hinkle knocked at the
garret in Clinton Place. Getting no answer, she opened the
door. At the table close to the window was Susan in a
nightgown, her hair in disorder as if she had begun to arrange
it and had stopped halfway. Her eyes turned listlessly in
Mary's direction--dull eyes, gray, heavily circled.
"You didn't answer, Miss Sackville. So I thought I'd come in and
leave a note," explained Mary. Her glance was avoiding Susan's.
"Come for the dress and hat?" said Susan. "There they are."
And she indicated the undisturbed bed whereon hat and dress
were carelessly flung.
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