"
"No--that's what I should imagine."
"You're awfully hard on people, Robert."
"That sort of thing makes me sick. It ought to make you sick. I don't
know why it doesn't. You don't seem to care--to have any standards.
You're unmoral in your outlook--perhaps you're too young--you don't
realize. A rotter like Howard who takes other people's money just to
enjoy himself--a girl like Gertie Sumners who goes off with the first man
who asks her----"
"You don't understand, Robert."
"No," he said with a laugh, "I don't."
"Gertie Sumners hasn't long to live. I sent her to the hospital last
week, and they told her honestly. And she wanted so much to see Italy.
I don't think Howard cares for her or she for him, except in a comradely
sort of way. They loved the same things--and he was sorry--he wanted to
give her her one good time."
"He told you all that, I suppose?"
"No," she answered soberly. "But I know."
He waited a moment. He was trying desperately to hold back--to stop
himself. He was sorry about Gertie Sumners. But everything was against
him. The room was against him--the faun dancing noiselessly among the
shadows, the little things that Francey had gathered about her, the dear
personal things that can become terrible in their poignancy, Francey
herself, standing there slender and grave-eyed, judging him, weighing
him. They were all leagued together. They spoke with one voice. "We
belong TO one another.
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