And you don't
wear cheap finery. And while you use a strong scent, it's not
one of the cheap and nasty kind--it's sensual without being
slimy. And you don't use the kind of words one always hears
in your circle."
Susan looked immensely relieved. "Then you _do_ know who I
am!" she cried.
"You didn't suppose I thought you fresh from a fashionable
boarding school, did you? I'd hardly look there for an
actress who could act. You've got
experience--experience--experience--written all over your
face--sadly, satirically, scornfully, gayly, bitterly. And
what I want is experience--not merely having been through
things, but having been through them understandingly. You'll
help me in my experiment?"
He looked astonished, then irritated, when the girl, instead
of accepting eagerly, drew back in her chair and seemed to be
debating. His irritation showed still more plainly when she
finally said:
"That depends on him. And he--he thinks you don't like him."
"What's his name?" said Brent in his abrupt, intense fashion.
"What's his name?"
"Spenser--Roderick Spenser."
Brent looked vague.
"He used to be on the _Herald_. He writes plays."
"Oh--yes. I remember. He's a weak fool."
Susan abruptly straightened, an ominous look in eyes and brow.
Brent made an impatient gesture. "Beg pardon. Why be
sensitive about him? Obviously because you know I'm right.
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