And her guilt showed in the tone of her
greeting, in the reluctance and forced intensity of her kiss
and embrace. She had compressed into the five most receptive
years of a human being's life an experience that was, for one
of her intelligence and education, equal to many times five
years of ordinary life. And this experience had developed her
instinct for concealing her deep feelings into a fixed habit.
But it had not made her a liar--had not robbed her of her
fundamental courage and self-respect which made her shrink in
disdain from deceiving anyone who seemed to her to have the
right to frankness. Spenser, she felt as always, had that
right--this, though he had not been frank with her; still,
that was a matter for his own conscience and did not affect
her conscience as to what was courageous and honorable toward
him. So, had he been observing, he must have seen that
something was wrong. But he was far too excited about his own
affairs to note her.
"My luck's turned!" cried he, after kissing her with
enthusiasm. "Fitzalan has sent Jack Sperry to me, and we're
to collaborate on a play. I told you Fitz was the real thing."
Susan turned hastily away to hide her telltale face.
"Who's Sperry?" asked she, to gain time for self-control.
"Oh, He's a play-smith--and a bear at it. He has knocked
together half a dozen successes. He'll supply the trade
experience that I lack, and Fitzalan will be sure to put on
our piece.
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