He had said--this very man
who could not find time to write--that he would wait ten years for her, and
that she was bound to come back to him sooner or later. He had said this in the
absurd letter about sunstroke and diphtheria; and then he had stopped writing.
He was wandering up and down moonlit streets, kissing cooks. She would like to
lecture him now,--not in her nightgown, of course, but properly dressed,
severely and from a height. Yet if he was kissing other girls he certainly
would not care whether she lecture him or not. He would laugh at her. Very
good.
She would go back to her studio and prepare pictures that went, etc., etc.
The mill-wheel of thought swung round slowly, that no section of it might be
slurred over, and the red-haired girl tossed and turned behind her.
Maisie put her chin in her hands and decided that there could be no doubt
whatever of the villainy of Dick. To justify herself, she began, unwomanly, to
weigh the evidence. There was a boy, and he had said he loved her. And he
kissed her,--kissed her on the cheek,--by a yellow sea-poppy that nodded its
head exactly like the maddening dry rose in the garden. Then there was an
interval, and men had told her that they loved her--just when she was busiest
with her work.
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