Before the first two weeks were over, she deserted the company,
disillusioned, mortified. It HAD come to a matter of tights.
She returned to New York and bravely resumed her visits to managerial
offices and to the lairs of agents, in quest of an engagement not
quite so incompatible with her sense of delicacy and refinement as the
one she had just abandoned. But there was nothing to be had. More than
once she was tempted to write to Flanders, begging him to forgive her
and to forget, if he could, the silly mistake she had made. But love
and loneliness were no match for the pride that was a part of her
nature. She resolutely put away the temptation to do the perfectly
sensible thing, and, woman-like, fortified herself against surrender
by running away from danger.
She had heard of the Bingles through a woman playwright who wanted to
dramatize the Bingle enterprise. Nothing, said this enthusiastic
person, could be more adorable than a play based on the Bingle methods
of acquiring a family.
One day, in Central Park, she saw Mr.
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