"No, I have one of my own already."
"Did you get a--get a--oh, I don't know--did you get boots for
tramping through the country with--boots for show, boots for wear,
boots for comfort? How many pair of boots _did_ you get?"
"Two."
"Well--go and get some more and an opera cloak--to-morrow evening,
we're going to sit in the Comedie Francais and not understand a word
that's said."
Then they had gone abroad, and life--wonderful--had passed from day
to day like a pageant before Sally's eyes. The dark moments came with
less frequency. After a time, they passed away altogether. She saw
no end to it; she saw no sin in it. What sin could there be? Janet's
arguments had penetrated more deeply into her mind than she had ever
imagined. When, on rare occasions, she was alone in the hotel where
they happened to be staying--and it was then that doubt, while there
was any, oppressed her--she hugged Janet's sayings to her mind,
forced them to support her. "You're only a conventionalist, like
everybody else--you're not a moralist."
Now she was a moralist, or nothing. She had cut the last link with
convention and, at a moment such as that, the realization that there
was no returning, no getting back, obsessed her with a shuddering
fear.
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