''
He did not like her expression. It was not the one
he was used to seeing in those vain, ``temperamental''
pupils of his--the downcast vanity that will be up
again in a few hours. It was rather the expression of
one who has been finally and forever disillusioned.
On her way home she stopped to send Keith a
telegram: ``I must see you at once.''
There were several at the apartment for tea, among
them Cullan, an amateur violinist and critic on music
whom she especially liked. For, instead of the dreamy,
romantic character his large brown eyes and sensitive
features suggested, he revealed in talk and actions a
boyish gayety--free, be it said, from boyish silliness--
that was most infectious. His was one of those souls
that put us in the mood to laugh at all seriousness, to
forget all else in the supreme fact of the reality of
existence. He made her forget that day--forget until
Keith's answering telegram interrupted: ``Next Monday
afternoon.''
A week less a day away! She shrank and trembled
at the prospect of relying upon herself alone for six
long days.
Pages:
341
342
343
344
345
346
347
348
349
350
351
352
353
354
355
356
357
358
359
360
361
362
363
364
365