hairs abasing themselves before her triumphant youth; and now she would have to laboriously recreate him in her mind. Actually, she never did. It would have comforted him to know that, strangely. But he never did know it.
After he had gone she interrogated Mary, as she had been wont to question Agnes.
"He must be worried about something," she said sagely, interrupting Mary's peaceful scribbling in the bedroom. "He seemed to be on pins and needles."
"It was me," said Mary, disregarding syntax, and further replied to Hope's stare. "He wondered where I might be; he feels rather silly before me. Did he ask?"
"No. Was that it?"
Mary nodded, smiling.
"Certainly. He could feel my eye gimleting through the keyhole. Wicked child, why don't you let that poor man alone!"
"I don't do anything to him," said Hope indignantly.
"Horrid little flirt," said Mary calmly.
"I am not!"
"No? What then do you want with all those men?" Mary's voice, sweetly lazy and receptive, wooed to confidence.
"Only four," Hope protested. "I don't flirt with them!"—she paused a long time—"Maybe you can understand. It's like this: there are so many things I'd like to do and see and feel, all at once; I should like to reach out in every direction. I wish the world were an orange and I could eat it..."
"An apple, you mean," murmured Mary. "Well?"
"When I hear of a strange country, I long to be there immediately," Hope pursued resolutely. "To read of some new discovery makes me wish I were at the inventor's elbow; to hear of a big adventure fills me with an awful longing to have experienced it. And I'd like to be a man; but I'd like to be a woman, too. Of course I simply can't have any of those things. But Ned and Allen and Con Edgerton and all of them"—she hesitated obviously over Tony Yorke's name—"they're my foreign countries, my other lives. I explore them and watch them: I take some of their lives from them. Because they let me see themselves. So do you, maybe Lisbeth does; but no one else. People in a crowd aren't interesting. A crowd brings out points of resemblance; in extreme cases it turns into one creature, a mob! But that wasn't what I started to say, was it?"
"No," said Mary. "Never mind, je vous comprends. Yes—'But he who lives more lives than one, more deaths than one must die.' "
"I've died a million times here in the last two years," retorted Hope. "I think I'm getting used to it now."
"You don't fidget so much," agreed Mary. "But is that it? Is—it...?"
There was no answer.
"Aren't you engaged to Tony Yorke?"
Hope looked up quickly, her eyes round with surprise, a defensive blankness clouding them.
"Why do you ask that?" she parried.
"Because I have no manners," Mary smiled. "Now aren't you?" But her real reason she could not tell.
"Yes," said Hope, rosily shamefaced and a little proud. "But I'll never forgive you if you tell any one. You won't, will you?"
"Not unless you say I may," Mary hesitated. "But you ought to announce it. Did—did Tony ask you not to?"
"No, of course not," said Hope placidly astonished. "We never spoke of it. Who cares, anyway? No one would be interested, except maybe you and Lisbeth. And I don't want to be served up with the sandwiches at every afternoon tea from now till next year. If you tell I'll hate you!"
"As you say," agreed Mary, secretly resolved to alter that decision. "When shall you be married?"
"Oh, I don't know. Sometime." Hope laughed happily.
"It will be never," said Mary to herself. But aloud she spoke, "I forgot to say the usual thing, my dear. But you know I hope you find the magpie's nest."
"What magpie's nest?" inquired Hope, round-eyed again.
"A façon de parler, dear; the French say happiness is to be found in a magpie's nest. Because the magpie always builds out of reach!"
Hope smiled to herself, with deep assurance.
"But I forgot to ask you," she said, "what does Mr. Edgerton want?"
Mary, in silent despair, refused to answer.
CHAPTER X
GOSSIP that
After he had gone she interrogated Mary, as she had been wont to question Agnes.
"He must be worried about something," she said sagely, interrupting Mary's peaceful scribbling in the bedroom. "He seemed to be on pins and needles."
"It was me," said Mary, disregarding syntax, and further replied to Hope's stare. "He wondered where I might be; he feels rather silly before me. Did he ask?"
"No. Was that it?"
Mary nodded, smiling.
"Certainly. He could feel my eye gimleting through the keyhole. Wicked child, why don't you let that poor man alone!"
"I don't do anything to him," said Hope indignantly.
"Horrid little flirt," said Mary calmly.
"I am not!"
"No? What then do you want with all those men?" Mary's voice, sweetly lazy and receptive, wooed to confidence.
"Only four," Hope protested. "I don't flirt with them!"—she paused a long time—"Maybe you can understand. It's like this: there are so many things I'd like to do and see and feel, all at once; I should like to reach out in every direction. I wish the world were an orange and I could eat it..."
"An apple, you mean," murmured Mary. "Well?"
"When I hear of a strange country, I long to be there immediately," Hope pursued resolutely. "To read of some new discovery makes me wish I were at the inventor's elbow; to hear of a big adventure fills me with an awful longing to have experienced it. And I'd like to be a man; but I'd like to be a woman, too. Of course I simply can't have any of those things. But Ned and Allen and Con Edgerton and all of them"—she hesitated obviously over Tony Yorke's name—"they're my foreign countries, my other lives. I explore them and watch them: I take some of their lives from them. Because they let me see themselves. So do you, maybe Lisbeth does; but no one else. People in a crowd aren't interesting. A crowd brings out points of resemblance; in extreme cases it turns into one creature, a mob! But that wasn't what I started to say, was it?"
"No," said Mary. "Never mind, je vous comprends. Yes—'But he who lives more lives than one, more deaths than one must die.' "
"I've died a million times here in the last two years," retorted Hope. "I think I'm getting used to it now."
"You don't fidget so much," agreed Mary. "But is that it? Is—it...?"
There was no answer.
"Aren't you engaged to Tony Yorke?"
Hope looked up quickly, her eyes round with surprise, a defensive blankness clouding them.
"Why do you ask that?" she parried.
"Because I have no manners," Mary smiled. "Now aren't you?" But her real reason she could not tell.
"Yes," said Hope, rosily shamefaced and a little proud. "But I'll never forgive you if you tell any one. You won't, will you?"
"Not unless you say I may," Mary hesitated. "But you ought to announce it. Did—did Tony ask you not to?"
"No, of course not," said Hope placidly astonished. "We never spoke of it. Who cares, anyway? No one would be interested, except maybe you and Lisbeth. And I don't want to be served up with the sandwiches at every afternoon tea from now till next year. If you tell I'll hate you!"
"As you say," agreed Mary, secretly resolved to alter that decision. "When shall you be married?"
"Oh, I don't know. Sometime." Hope laughed happily.
"It will be never," said Mary to herself. But aloud she spoke, "I forgot to say the usual thing, my dear. But you know I hope you find the magpie's nest."
"What magpie's nest?" inquired Hope, round-eyed again.
"A façon de parler, dear; the French say happiness is to be found in a magpie's nest. Because the magpie always builds out of reach!"
Hope smiled to herself, with deep assurance.
"But I forgot to ask you," she said, "what does Mr. Edgerton want?"
Mary, in silent despair, refused to answer.
CHAPTER X
GOSSIP that
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