"Then," said Athalie drily, "you'd better find work in those
theatres."
Doris glanced sideways at Catharine, who silently returned her glance
as though an understanding and sympathy existed between them not
suspected or shared in by Athalie.
It was not very much of a secret. Some prowling genius of the agencies
whom Doris had met had offered to write a vaudeville act for her and
himself if she could find two other girls. And she had persuaded
Catharine and Genevieve Hunting to try it; and Cecil Reeve and Francis
Hargrave had gaily offered to back it. They were rehearsing in Reeve's
apartments--between a continuous series of dinners and suppers.
And it had been her sister's going to Reeve's apartments to which
Athalie had seriously objected,--not knowing why she went there.
* * * * *
This was one of many scenes that torrid summer in New York, when
Athalie intuitively felt that the year which had begun so happily for
her with the entrance of Clive into her life, was growing duller and
greyer; and that each succeeding day seemed to be swinging her into a
tide of anxiety and mischance,--a current as yet merely perceptible,
but already increasing in speed toward something swifter and more
stormy.
Already, to her, the future had become overcast, obscure, disquieting.
Steer as she might toward any promising harbour, always she seemed to
be aware of some subtle resistance impeding her.
Every small economy attempted, every retrenchment planned, came to
nothing. Always she was met at some corner by an unlooked-for
necessity entailing further expense.
No money was coming in; her own and her sister's savings were going
steadily, every day, every week.
There seemed no further way to check expenditure. Athalie had
dismissed their servant as soon as she had lost her position at
Wahlbaum and Grossman's. Table expenses were reduced to Spartan
limits, much to the disgust of them all. No clothes were bought, no
luxuries, no trifles. They did their own marketing, their own cooking,
their own housework and laundry. And had it not been that the
apartment entailed no outlay for light, heat, and rent, they would
have been sorely perplexed that spring and summer in New York.
Athalie permitted herself only one luxury, Hafiz. And one necessity;
stamps and letter paper for foreign correspondence.
The latter was costing her less and less recently. Clive wrote seldom
now. And always very sensitive where he was concerned, she permitted
herself the happiness of writing only after he had taken the
initiative, and a reply from her was due him.
No, matters were not going very well with Athalie. Also she was
frequently physically tired. Perhaps it was the lassitude consequent
on the heat. But at times she had an odd idea that she lacked courage;
and sometimes when lonely, she tried to reason with herself, tried to
teach her heart bravery--particularly during the long interims which
elapsed between Clive's letters.