The quiet corner was found in a gallery which ad-joined the ballroom, and where Winslow's art treasures were displayed. Sally and Meriweather sat on a carved Florentine choir seat and faced an ancient mosaic of a small fat Bacchus with a wreath of purple grapes.
"Neale wants me to marry him right away," Sally said, abruptly, "And I can't. I've got to be free a little longer."
"Sally, Sally," Meriweather said, "why did you do it?"
The Florentine seat was very narrow. It had a high back, and high curved arms, so that the two of them were shut in like people in an old-fashioned hansom cab. As Sally turned towards him, Merry saw in her eyes, so close to his, a strained and wistful look. "I was mad I think, Merry. But I've got to go on with it."
He was sorry for her. Little Sally. "I suppose it would do no good to beg you not to marry him?"
Her voice was low, "What else is there for me to do?"
"Wait until some one comes along who will make you happy."
Her laugh was hard. "Happy?" she jumped to her feet and stood there—gay in her shepherdess' dress, her eyes no longer wistful. "I shall be happy enough when I am spending Neale's money."
He laid his hand on her arm, "Sally, don't."
"Don't what?"
"Talk like that."
"How shall I talk."
