There Mildred stopped and flung the paper aside.
She did not care even to glance at the exercises pre-
scribed or at the diet and the routine of daily work.
How dull and uninspired! How grossly material!
Stomach! Chewing! Exercising machines! Plodding
dreary miles daily, rain or shine! What could such
things have to do with the free and glorious career of
an inspired singer? Keith was laughing at her as he
hastened away, abandoning her to her fate.
She examined herself in the glass to make sure that
the ravages of her attack of rage and grief and despair
could be effaced within a few hours, then she wrote a
note--formal yet friendly--to Stanley Baird, informing
him that she would receive him that evening. He
came while Cyrilla and Mildred were having their after,
dinner coffee and cigarettes. He was a man who took
great pains with his clothes, and got them where pains
was not in vain. That evening he had arrayed himself
with unusual care, and the result was a fine, manly figure
of the well-bred New-Yorker type.
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