It was not
storming as she sat there, ``taking stock''; under a
blue sky an almost tranquil sea was crooning softly in
the sunlight, innocent and happy and playful as a child.
She, dressed in a charming negligee and looking forward
to a merry day in the auto, with lunch and dinner
at attractive, luxurious places farther down the coast--
she was stricken with a horrible sadness, with a terror
that made her heart beat wildly.
``I must be crazy!'' she said, half aloud. ``I've
never earned a dollar with my voice. And for two
months it has been unreliable. I'm acting like a crazy
person. What WILL become of me?''
Just then Stanley Baird came through the pretty little
house, seeking her. ``There you are!'' he cried. ``Do
go get dressed.''
Hastily she flung a scarf over the book and papers
in her lap. She had intended to speak to him about
that fresh deposit of five thousand dollars--to refuse
it, to rebuke him. Now she did not dare.
``What's the matter?'' he went on. ``Headache?''
``It was the wine at dinner last night,'' explained she.
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