I want you to go to bed.'

'Out of the way?' I smiled.

'Go to bed and to sleep,' he repeated.

'But why?'

'I want to walk about this floor. I must be alone.'

'Well,' I said, 'just to prove how humble and obedient I am, I will go.'

And I held up my mouth to be kissed.

Wondrous, the joy I found in playing the decorative, acquiescent,
self-effacing woman to him, the pretty, pouting plaything! I liked him to
dismiss me, as the soldier dismisses his charmer at the sound of the
bugle. I liked to think upon his obvious conviction that the libretto was
less than nothing compared to the music. I liked him to regard the whole
artistic productivity of my life as the engaging foible of a pretty
woman. I liked him to forget that I had brought him alive out of Paris. I
liked him to forget to mention marriage to me. In a word, he was Diaz,
and I was his.

And as I lay in bed I even tried to go to sleep, in my obedience, because
I knew he would wish it. But I could not easily sleep for anticipating
his triumph of the early future. His habits of composition were extremely
rapid. It might well occur that he would write the entire opera in a few
months, without at all sacrificing the piano. And naturally any operatic
manager would be loath to refuse an opera signed by Diaz. Villedo,
apparently so famous, would be sure to accept it, and probably would
produce it at once. And Diaz would have a double triumph, a dazzling and
gorgeous re-entry into the world. He might give his first recital in the
same week as the _premiere_ of the opera. And thus his shame would never
be really known to the artistic multitude. The legend of a nervous
collapse could be insisted on, and the opera itself would form a
sufficient excuse for his retirement.... And I should be the secret cause
of all this glory--I alone! And no one would ever guess what Diaz owed to
me. Diaz himself would never appreciate it. I alone, withdrawn from the
common gaze, like a woman of the East, Diaz' secret fountain of strength
and balm--I alone should be aware of what I had done. And my knowledge
would be enough for me.

I imagine I must have been dreaming when I felt a hand on my cheek.

'Magda, you aren't asleep, are you?'

Diaz was standing over me.

'No, no!' I answered, in a voice made feeble by sleep. And I looked
up at him.

'Put something on and come downstairs, will you?'

'What time is it?'

'Oh, I don't know. One o'clock.'

'You've been working fo