Shall I send it to you?"

Something went out from this letter which hurt Helen deeply. First of
all there was a certain humble aloofness in his attitude which troubled
her, but more significant still was his confessed departure from his
ideals. Her brave and splendid lover had surrendered to the enemy--for
her sake. Her first impulse was to write refusing to accept his
sacrifice. But on second thought she craftily wrote: "I do not like to
think of you writing to please the public, which I have put aside, but
come and bring your play. I cannot believe that you have really written
down to a melodramatic audience. What I will do I cannot say till I have
seen your piece. Where have you kept yourself? Have you been West? Come
and tell me all about it."

To this self-contained note he replied by sending the drama. "No, I
cannot come till Hugh and you have read and accepted this play. I want
your manager to pass on _Alessandra_. You know what I mean. You are an
idealist like myself. You will condemn this drama, but Westervelt may
see in it a chance to restore the glitter to his theatre. Ask them both
to read it--without letting them know who wrote it. If they accept it,
then I can meet them again on equal terms. I long to see you; but I am
in disgrace and infinitely poorer than when I first met you."

Over this letter Helen pondered long. Her first impulse was to send the
play back without reading it, but her love suggested another subterfuge.
"I will do his will, and if Hugh and Westervelt find the play acceptable
I will share in his triumph. But I will not do the play except as a last
resort--for his sake. _Enid_ is more than holding its own. So long as it
does I will not permit him to lower his splendid powers."

To Hugh she carelessly said: "Here is another play--a melodrama, to
judge from the title. Look it over and see if there is anything in it."

As plays were constantly coming in to them, Hugh took this one quite as
a matter of routine, with expectation of being bored. He was a little
surprised next morning when she asked, "Did you look into that
manuscript?"

He answered: "No. I didn't get time."

She could hardly conceal her impatience. "I wish you'd go over it this
morning. From the title it's one of those middle-age Italian things that
costume well."

"Oh, is it?" he exclaimed. "Well, I'll get right at it." Her interest in
it more than the title moved him. It was a most hopeful sign of
weakening on her p