Quicksand
was really too amusing. Just why, she wondered, and how had it come about that he was being married to Anne. And why did Anne, who had so much more than so many others—more than enough—want Anderson too? Why couldn‘t she— “I think,” she told herself, “I‘d better stop. It‘s none of my business. I don‘t care in the least. Besides,” she added irrelevantly, “I hate such nonsensical soul-searching.”
One night not long after the arrival of Anne‘s letter with its curious news, Helga went with Olsen and some other young folk to the great Circus, a vaudeville house, in search of amusement on a rare off night. After sitting through several numbers they reluctantly arrived at the conclusion that the whole entertainment was dull, unutterably dull, and apparently without alleviation, and so not to be borne. They were reaching for their wraps when out upon the stage pranced two black men, American Negroes undoubtedly, for as they danced and cavorted, they sang in the
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