She went back to the Rivi regime. A week passed,
and she was little better. Two weeks, and she began
to mend. But it was six weeks before the last traces of
her folly disappeared. Moldini said not a word, gave
no sign. Once more her life went on in uneventful,
unbroken routine--diet, exercise, singing--singing,
exercise, diet--no distractions except an occasional
visit to the opera with Moldini, and she was hating
opera now. All her enthusiasm was gone. She simply
worked doggedly, drudged, slaved.
When the days began to grow warm, Mrs. Belloc said:
``I suppose you'll soon be off to the country? Are you
going to visit Mrs. Brindley?''
``No,'' said Mildred.
``Then come with me.''
``Thank you, but I can't do it.''
``But you've got to rest somewhere.''
``Rest?'' said Mildred. ``Why should I rest?''
Mrs. Belloc started to protest, then abruptly
changed. ``Come to think of it, why should you?
You're in perfect health, and it'll be time enough to rest
when you `get there.' ''
``I'm tired through and through,'' said Mildred,
``but it isn't the kind of tired that could be rested
except by throwing up this frightful nightmare of a
career.
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