In the midst of her merriest laughter, the clever gray eyes would
flit from one man's face to the other. Paul had been brought here to ask
her to marry him. Claude de Chauxville had been invited that he might be
tacitly presented to his successful rival. Maggie was there because she
was a woman and made the necessary fourth. Puppets all, and two of them
knew it. And some of us know it all our lives. We are living, moving
puppets. We let ourselves be dragged here and pushed there, the victim
of one who happens to have more energy of mind, a greater steadfastness
of purpose, a keener grasp of the situation called life. We smirk and
smile, and lose the game because we have begun by being anvils, and are
afraid of trying to be hammers.
But Etta Sydney Bamborough had to deal with metal of a harder grain than
the majority of us. Claude de Chauxville was for the moment forced to
assume the humble role of anvil because he had no choice. Maggie
Delafield was passive for the time being, because that which would make
her active was no more than a tiny seedling in her heart. The girl bid
fair to be one of those women who develop late, who ripen slowly, like
the best fruit.
During the drive to the opera house the two women in Etta's snug little
brougham were silent. Etta had her thoughts to occupy her. She was at
the crucial point of a difficult game.
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