She laughed. ‘You’re always talking about “honour and truth and a sure intent,”’ she said. ‘You’re so romantic, Phil—anyone would think you were getting married instead of me!’ “Then he wasn’t married! That was my first thought, as I faded away back to Fanchon. But later on, the things he said began to sink in. ‘Poor little rats!’ He had said that in the same tone that he had looked through me. Every time I thought of it I wanted to go and burn myself up and then crawl out and fly away a new bird, like a Pegasus or a Phœnix, or whatever the old thing is. I knew I was a poor little rat—that he’d call me the same thing if he ever had a good look at me. And the worst thing was that I didn’t have a clue on how not to be a poor little rat—not a clue, except for those three things he had named—‘honour and truth and a sure intent.’ The first two and me weren’t speaking. That last—well, I thought I did have a sure intent. To get to the top on designing for Charlette—to get so that I would be the acknowledged head, second only to the old girl Charlette herself, who spent most of her time hanging in on the Paris exhibits—that was my aim; and then I was going to spread and have a good time. Not a bad aim, as aims go. The trouble with everyone nowadays is, everyone wants to get to the top and have a good time every step of the way too.” She paused to take breath. “Do you mean,” said Joy, “that you—you really fell in love with him—then?” “Yes.” They were silent for a moment, and then Joy whispered an old, old question—and one that of late had been pricking her with uncertainty. “Jerry—how did you—know? How could you be so—sure?” “How does one know?” Jerry repeated. “That’s something that crashes in to different make-ups in different ways, Joy. With me—it came like a pistol shot. Just as sudden, and as unwelcome. “I thought about him on an average of every day, after that. You see, no one had ever spilled it to me before that there might be something lacking in my get-up. I always believed that you can get to anything you want if you want it hard enough to work for nothing but that. Look where I had landed by tearing my eyes out with work while other girls watched the clock and beat it early for movie dates—from the East Side newsie in grey sweater and bloomers to a Fifth Avenue designer in a Charlette model—at twenty. And so I began to believe that if I wanted Phil Lancaster hard enough, I could get him. There was this hitch to it, though; I knew how to work for what I wanted, before. Now I was in the dark. The only right thing I knew was that I was wrong—and that I didn’t want to see him again until I was right.