was midday, but Edith was not yet up. The room smelt of perfumes and cigarettes and the windows were shut, as there was a fog outside. Edith lay in bed reading the Confessions of St. Augustine, with her hair in curl papers.
"I've had an awful night," she said pathetically. "Nina knows I oughtn't to have any sort of disturbance, and yet she made a scene yesterday about my going down to Montreux. Don't you think it's unkind of her to try to shut me up, as though I were insane or something?" And her chin quivered piteously.
"All the same, you mustn't go," said Teresa calmly.
"Why not? Are you, too, against me?"
"You must do as Nina wishes, else she won't help you—and you need her. And if your husband heard of your going about like that, he wouldn't believe much in your—well, it wouldn't make him feel more kindly toward you, would it, now?"
"It isn't from lack of feeling I wanted to go. Heaven knows I feel things enough—too much. That's just it."
"Yes, I know, but I assure you, you mustn't do it. You mustn't offend Nina."
Edith looked sullen, and after a pause cried passionately:
"Shall I ever again be able to do anything I choose—or shall I be somebody's slave all my
