“But it isn’t what I want,” insisted Laura, “I want to feel everything and to know that I feel it.”

“Well, you’re different,” rejoined Gerty.  “What I’m after is to be happy, and I care very little what form it takes or what kind of happiness mine may be.  I’ve ceased to be particular about the details even—­if Billy Lancaster is my happiness I’ll devour him and never waste an idle moment in regret.  Why should I?—­Perry doesn’t.”

“So there’s an end to Perry?”

“An end!  Oh, you delicious child, there’s only a beginning.  Perry’s cult is the inaccessible—­present him with all the virtues and he will run away; ignore him utterly and he’ll make your life insupportable by his presence.  For the last twenty-four hours I assure you he’s stuck to me—­like a briar.”

“Then it’s all for Perry—­I mean this Billy?” asked Laura.

Gerty shook her head while her brows grew slowly together in an expression of angry bitterness.

“It was in the beginning,” she responded, “but I’m not sure that it is now—­not entirely at any rate.  The boy’s worship is incense to my nostrils, I suppose.  Yes, I’ve always been a monument of indifference to men, but I confess to an increasing enthusiasm for Billy’s looks.”

“An enthusiasm which Perry doesn’t share?”

The laughter in Gerty’s voice was a little sad.  “I declare it really hurts me that I’ve ceased to notice.  The poor silly man offered to give up his golf to go motoring with me yesterday afternoon, and I went and was absolutely bored to death.  I couldn’t help thinking how much more interesting Billy is.”

Her veil was at last adjusted to her satisfaction; and with a last brilliant glance, which swept her entire figure, she turned from the mirror and paused to draw on her gloves while she bent over and kissed Laura upon the cheek.

“Goodbye, dear, if Billy turns out to be any real comfort, I’ll share him with you.”

“Oh, I have a Billy of my own!” retorted Laura; and though her words were mirthful there was a seriousness in her look which lasted long after the door had closed upon her friend.  She was thinking of Adams, wondering if she should write to him, and how she should word her note; and whether any expression of sympathy would not sound both trivial and absurd?  Then it seemed to her that there was nothing that she could say because she realised that she stood now at an impassable distance from him.  The connection of thought even which had existed between them was snapped at the instant; and she felt that she was no longer interested in the things which had once absorbed them.  The friendship was still there, she supposed, but the spirit of each, the thoughts, the very language, had become strangely different, and she told herself that she could no longer speak to him since she had lost the power to speak in any words he might understand.