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"I'll come another time, if you'll ask me. Not to-day," she said.
And left rather precipitately. It hurt her, rather, to have Natalie,
with an impulsive gesture, gather the flowers out of a great jar and
insist on her carrying them home with her. It gave her a miserable
sense of playing unfairly.
She walked home. The fresh air, after Natalie's flower-scented,
overheated room, made her more rational. She knew where she stood,
anyhow. She was in love with Clayton Spencer. She had, she
reflected cynically, been in love before. A number of times before.
She almost laughed aloud. She had called those things love, those
sickly romances, those feeble emotions!
Then her eyes filled with unexpected tears. She had always wanted
some one to make her happy. Now she wanted to make some one happy.
She cared nothing for the cost. She would put herself out of it
altogether. He was not happy. Any one could see that. He had
everything, but he was not happy. If he belonged to her, she would
live to make him happy.


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