again."

The creative fire began to glow in his eyes. "This is to be as
individual, as poetic, as the other was sociologic. The character you
are to play is that of a young girl who knows nothing of life, but a
great deal of books. _Enid's_ whole world is revealed by the light which
streams from the window of a convent library--a gray, cold light with
deep shadows. She is tall and pale and severe of line, but her blue eyes
are deep and brooding. Her father, a Western mine-owner, losing his
second wife, calls on his daughter to return from the Canadian convent
in which she has spent seven years. She takes her position as an heiress
in his great house. She is plunged at once into the midst of a
pleasure-seeking, thoughtless throng of young people whose interests in
life seem to her to be grossly material. She becomes the prey of
adventurers, male and female, and has nothing but her innate purity to
defend her. Ultimately there come to her two men who type the forces at
war around her, and she is forced to choose between them."

As he outlined this new drama the mind of the actress took hold of
_Enid's_ character, so opposite in energy to _Lillian_, and its great
possibilities exalted her, filled her with admiration for the mind which
could so quickly create a new character.

"I see I shall never want for parts while you are my playwright," she
said, when he had finished.

"Oh, I can write--so long as I have you to write for and to work for,"
he replied. "You are the greatest woman in the world. Your faith in me,
your forgiveness of my cowardice, have given me a sense of power--"

She spoke quickly and with an effort to smile. "We are getting personal
again."

He bowed to the reminder. "I beg your pardon. I will not offend again."

XI

Helen's warning was not as playful as it seemed to her lover, for
something in the glow of his eyes and something vibrant in the tones of
his voice had disturbed her profoundly. The fear of something which he
seemed perilously near saying filled her with unrest, bringing up
questions which had thus far been kept in the background of her scheme
of life.

"Some time I shall marry, I suppose," she had said to one of her
friends, "but not now; my art will not permit it. Wedlock to an
actress," she added, "is almost as significant as death. It may mean an
end of her playing--a death to her ambitions. When I decide to marry I
shall also decide to give up the stage."

"Oh, I d