Then she brought him back from the digression.  “Anyhow, it’s on my own account, not Paula’s—­nor even father’s—­that I want a job.  Father will feel about it, of course, as you do and so will Rush and—­and the rest.  And I don’t want it to hurt anybody more than necessary.  I’d rather stay here but I suppose on their account I’d better go away.  And you know so many people—­in so many places.  There’s your sister in Omaha.  I remember how much trouble you said she had finding a nursery governess.  I’d be pretty good at that I think.  I could teach French and—­I’d be nice to children.”

For a moment she wildly thought she had won him.  She saw the tears come into his eyes.

“Anything I have in the world, my dear, or anything I can command is yours.  On any terms you like.”

But there he disposed of the tears and got himself together, as if he’d remembered some warning.  She could imagine Rush over the telephone, “Of course, she’s terribly run down with that damned war work of hers; not quite her real self, you know.”

She saw him summon a resolute smile and heard the familiar note of encouragement in his voice.  “We’ll think about it,” he told her.  “After all, things aren’t, probably, as black as they look.  And sometimes when they look darkest it’s only the sign that they’re about to change their faces altogether.  Anyhow, we’ve stared at them long enough to-night, haven’t we?  And all I meant was to take you out for a jolly evening!  Don’t you think we might save it, even yet?  Is there anything at the theatres you’d like to see?”

“Some musical show?” she asked.  “Yes, I’d like that very much.  Thank you.”

CHAPTER XIX

THE DRAMATIST

Mary returned to Ravinia—­went on duty, as she put it to Wallace—­the following afternoon rather taut-drawn in her determination to have things out with Paula at once.  But the mere attitude and atmosphere of the place, as before, let her down a little.

It was restful to have her days filled up with trivial necessary duties; an hour’s errand running in the small car; a pair of soiled satin slippers to clean with naptha; a stack of notes to answer from such unknown and infatuate admirers as managed to escape the classification feebleminded and were entitled therefore to have the fact recognized (this at a little desk in the corner while Novelli at the piano and Paula ranging about the room, ran over her part in half-voice in the opera she had rehearsed yesterday with the orchestra and was to sing to-night), a run to the park for a visit to Paula’s dressing-room in the pavilion in order to make sure, in conference with her dresser, that all was in order for to-night; a return to the cottage in time to heat Paula’s milk (their maid of all work couldn’t be trusted not to boil it); then at seven, driving Paula to the park for the performance, spending the evening in