Her face fell a little. “I’ll confide to you I don’t think he cares for me yet. I’m merely educating him up to it. That is the reason I’m staying on in town. Hope he’ll realize in time that I’m all in all.” Her tones were flippant again. “It takes an earthquake to wake some men up.” “Why don’t you break your leg and then he’d not only set it but call daily and feel so sympathetic he’d find out right off he loved you? Pity for a beautiful frail helpless creature, bravely suffering, would turn the trick with any man not a stone, and you look lovely in bed.” “That sounds almost romantic from you! No. It wouldn’t work. Mother would call in Dr. Gaunt and not let Geoffrey through the front door. But time is all I need and I mean to take it.” “Atlantic City won’t be the same without you. I shall miss you terribly.” The words were automatic. Her mind was racing. Polly rose and snapped her vanity-box. “If I pull it off sooner than I expect, I’ll leave town in a hurry. I long for salt water and long rides and a game of tennis. I suppose Geoffrey takes a vacation like other men and he could spend it in Atlantic City, to say nothing of weekends. You’re the best pal in the world and you’ve bucked me up. Had a séance with mother and was feeling down and out. When is the party?” “Week from tomorrow.” “I’ll be here with bells on. Don’t come down. You look tired, and if you find that ancient relic comfortable——Bye-bye.” And she ran down the stair. CHAPTER VIII For some time after Polly’s departure Gita lay still, with her brows drawn together. Her usually clear brain felt chaotic. A dog in the manger? Nice rôle for her. She couldn’t have—didn’t want—Geoffrey Pelham. Why had she alternated sympathy and noble resolutions with a desire to tear Polly’s eyes out? And she was really devoted to Polly—hadn’t even ceased to love her when she’d felt like flinging the truth in her face. . . . Vanity? No . . . something else. . . . Her brain began to flash once more. Geoffrey Pelham loved her and that in a way made him hers. Her sense of possession was outraged. It was as if Polly had made off with her best seventeenth-century sunflower chest. . . . Well, not exactly, perhaps. If she hadn’t inherited the essential endowment of her lady ancestresses she’d found room somewhere for a few female characteristics. Must have been lurking even when she thought she’d turned herself into a boy. She had a moment of poignant regret for the complete loss of that old manufactured—and protective—self. Pity they hadn’t let her alone. This mess wouldn’t have come about.