She stopped in the middle of the room, and, holding in her hand her
large hat decorated with ostrich feathers, she assured herself that it
was not at all likely that he would commit suicide. Yet men did commit
suicide.... She did not want him to kill himself, that anything so
terrible should happen would grieve her very much. She was quite
sincere, yet the thought persisted that it would be very wonderful if
he did do so. It would make a great scandal. That a man should kill
himself for her! No woman had ever obtained more than that. Standing
in the middle of the room, twirling her hat, she asked herself if she
really wished him to kill himself. Of course not. Then she thought of
herself, of how strange she was. She was very strange, she had never
quite understood herself.
Mechanically, as if in a dream, she opened a bandbox and put her hat
away. She smoothed her soft hair before the glass. Her appearance
pleased her, and she wondered if she were worth a man's life. She was
a dainty morsel, no doubt, so dainty that life was unendurable without
her. But she was wronging herself, she did not wish him to kill
himself.... Men had done so before for women.... If it came to the
point, she would do everything in her power to prevent such a thing.
She would do everything, yes, everything except marry him. She
couldn't settle down to watch him painting pictures. She wanted to
paint pictures herself. Would she succeed? He didn't think so, but
that was because he wanted her to marry him. And, if she didn't
succeed, she would have to marry him or some one else. She would have
to live with a man, give up her whole life to him, submit herself to
him. She must succeed. Success meant so much. If she succeeded, she
would be spoken of in the newspapers, and, best of all, she would hear
people say when she came into a room, 'That is Mildred Lawson....'
She didn't want to marry, but she would like to have all the nicest
men in love with her.... Meanwhile she was doing the right thing. She
must learn to draw, and the studio was the only place she could learn.
But she did not want to paint large portraits with dark backgrounds.
She could not see herself doing things like that. Chaplin was her
idea. She had always admired him. His women were so dainty, so
elegant, so eighteenth century--wicked little women in swings, as
wicked as their ankles, as their lovers' guitars.
But she would have to work two or three years before any one could
tell her whether she would succeed. Two or three years! It was a long
time, but a woman must do something if she wishes to attract
attention, to be a success. A little success in art went a long way in
society. But Paris was so dull, Elsie and Cissy were still away. There
was no one in the studio who interested her; moreover, Elsie had told
her that any flirtation there might easily bring banishment to the
ladies' studio across the way. So it was provoking that Ralph had
forced her to throw him over at that particular moment. She would have
liked to have kept him on, at least till the end of the month, when
Elsie and Cissy would return. The break with Ralph was certainly not
convenient. She still felt some interest in him. She would write to
him.