``Let's go to lunch.''
``You don't believe me?''
``Do you?''
She sank down upon the sand and burst into a wild
passion of sobs and tears. When her fight for self-
control was over and she looked up to apologize for her
pitiful exhibition of weakness--and to note whether
she had made an impression upon his sympathies--she
saw him just entering the house, a quarter of a mile
away. To anger succeeded a mood of desperate
forlornness. She fell upon herself with gloomy ferocity.
She could not sing. She had no brains. She was taking
money--a disgracefully large amount of money--
from Stanley Baird under false pretenses. How could
she hope to sing when her voice could not be relied upon?
Was not her throat at that very moment slightly sore?
Was it not always going queer? She--sing! Absurd.
Did Stanley Baird suspect? Was he waiting for
the time when she would gladly accept what she must
have from him, on his own terms? No, not on his
terms, but on the terms she herself would arrange--
the only terms she could make.
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