''
She did not note the pathetic tenderness of Cyrilla's
face as she said, ``Good night, Mildred.'' But she did
note the use of her first name--and her own right first
name--for the first time since they had known each
other. She embraced and kissed her again. ``Good
night, Cyrilla,'' she said gratefully.
As she entered Jennings's studio the next day he looked
at her; and when Jennings looked, he saw--as must
anyone who lives well by playing upon human nature.
He did not like her expression. She did not habitually
smile; her light-heartedness, her optimism, did not show
themselves in that inane way. But this seriousness of
hers was of a new kind, of the kind that bespeaks sobriety
and saneness of soul. And that kind of seriousness--
the deep, inward gravity of a person whose
days of trifling with themselves and with the facts of
life, and of being trifled with, are over--would have
impressed Jennings equally had she come in laughing,
had her every word been a jest.
``No, I didn't come for a lesson--at least not the
usual kind,'' said she.
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