During the first few weeks Mildred had been careful about spending money.Economy she did not understand;how could she, when she had never had a lesson in it or a valuable hint about it? So economy was impossible.The only way in which such people can keep order in their finances is by not spending any money at all.Mildred drew nothing, spent nothing.
This, so long as she gave her whole mind to her work.
But after the first great cold, so depressing, so subtly undermining, she began to go about, to think of, to need and to buy clothes, to spend money in a dozen necessary ways.After all, she was simply borrowing the money.Presently, she would be ****** a career, would be earning large sums.She would pay back everything, with interest.Stanley meant for her to use the money.Really, she ought to use it.How would her career be helped by her going about looking a dowd and a frump? She had always been used to the comforts of life.If she deprived herself of them, she would surely get into a frame of mind where her work would suffer.No, she must lead the normal life of a woman of her class.To work all the time--why, as Jennings said, that took away all the freshness, made one stale and unfit.A little distraction--always, of course, with musical people, people who talked and thought and did music--that sort of distraction was quite as much a part of her education as the singing lessons.Mrs.Brindley, certainly a sensible and serious woman if ever there was one--Mrs.Brindley believed so, and it must be so.
After that illness and before she began to go about, she had fallen into several fits of hideous blues, had been in despair as to the future.As soon as she saw something of people--always the valuable, musical sort of people--her spirits improved.And when she got a few new dresses--very ****** and inexpensive, but stylish and charming--and the hats, too, were successful--as soon as she was freshly arrayed she was singing better and was talking hopefully of the career again.Yes, it was really necessary that she live as she had always been used to living.
When Stanley came back her account was drawn up to the last cent of the proportionate amount.In fact, it might have been a few dollars--a hundred or so--overdrawn.She was not sure.Still, that was a small matter.During the summer she would spend less, and by fall she would be far ahead again--and ready to buy fall clothes.One day he said:
``You must be needing more money.''
``No indeed,'' cried she.``I've been living within the hundred a week--or nearly.I'm afraid I'm frightfully extravagant, and--''
``Extravagant?'' laughed he.``You are afraid to borrow! Why, three or four nights of singing will pay back all you've borrowed.''
``I suppose I WILL make a lot of money,'' said she.
``They all tell me so.But it doesn't seem real to me.''
She hastily added: ``I don't mean the career.That seems real enough.I can hardly wait to begin at the roles.I mean the money part.You see, I never earned any money and never really had any money of my own.''
``Well, you'll have plenty of it in two or three years,''
said Stanley, confidently.``And you mustn't try to live like girls who've been brought up to hardship.It isn't necessary, and it would only unfit you for your work.''
``I think that's true,'' said she.``But I've enough--more than enough.'' She gave him a nervous, shy, almost agonized look.``Please don't try to put me under any heavier obligations than I have to be.''
``Please don't talk nonsense about obligation,''
retorted he.``Let's get away from this subject.You don't seem to realize that you're doing me a favor, that it's a privilege to be allowed to help develop such a marvelous voice as yours.Scores of people would jump at the chance.''
``That doesn't lessen my obligation,'' said she.And she thought she meant it, though, in fact, his generous and plausible statement of the case had immediately lessened not a little her sense of obligation.
On the whole, however, she was not sorry she had this chance to talk of obligation.Slowly, as they saw each other from time to time, often alone, Stanley had begun--perhaps in spite of himself and unconsciously --to show his feeling for her.Sometimes his hand accidentally touched hers, and he did not draw it away as quickly as he might.And she--it was impossible for her to make any gesture, much less say anything, that suggested sensitiveness on her part.It would put him in an awkward position, would humiliate him most unjustly.He fell into the habit of holding her hand longer than was necessary at greeting or parting, of touching her caressingly, of looking at her with the eyes of a lover instead of a friend.She did not like these things.For some mysterious reason--from sheer perversity, she thought--she had taken a strong physical dislike to him.Perfectly absurd, for there was nothing intrinsically repellent about this handsome, clean, most attractively dressed man, of the best type of American and New-Yorker.No, only perversity could explain such a silly notion.She was always afraid he would try to take advantage of her delicate position--always afraid she would have to yield something, some trifle; yet the idea of giving anything from a sense of obligation was galling to her.His very refraining made her more nervous, the more shrinking.
If he would only commit some overt act--seize her, kiss her, make outrageous demands--but this refrain-ing, these touches that might be accidental and again might be stealthy approach-- She hated to have him shake hands with her, would have liked to draw away when his clothing chanced to brush against hers.
So she was glad of the talk about obligation.It set him at a distance, immediately.He ceased to look lovingly, to indulge in the nerve-rasping little caresses.
He became carefully formal.He was evidently eager to prove the sincerity of his protestations--too eager perhaps, her perverse mind suggested.Still, sincere or not, he held to all the forms of sincerity.
