''
``And you can't do that.''
``I won't,'' said Mildred, her lips compressed and her
eyes narrowed.
She and Moldini--and fat, funny little Mrs. Moldini
--went to the mountains. And she worked on. She
would listen to none of the suggestions about the dangers
of keeping too steadily at it, about working oneself
into a state of staleness, about the imperative
demands of the artistic temperament for rest, change,
variety. ``It may be so,'' she said to Mrs. Brindley.
``But I've gone mad. I can no more drop this routine
than--than you could take it up and keep to it for a
week.''
``I'll admit I couldn't,'' said Cyrilla. ``And
Mildred, you're making a mistake.''
``Then I'll have to suffer for it. I must do what
seems best to me.''
``But I'm sure you're wrong. I never knew anyone
to act as you're acting. Everyone rests and freshens
up.''
Mildred lost patience, almost lost her temper.
``You're trying to tempt me to ruin myself,'' she said.
``Please stop it. You say you never knew anyone to
do as I'm doing.
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