ght have been happily married, instead of
dying."

"I believe you would have killed him," I said.

"I know I should. It's a mistake not to be jealous. I admit that I'm
jealous. But such jealousy is a compliment to a woman, my dearest, not
an insult."

"How you feel things!" I exclaimed. "Even a play on the stage--"

"If the woman I love is the heroine."

"Will you ever be blase, like the rest of the men I know?" I laughed,
though I could have sobbed.

"Never, I think. It isn't in me. Do you despise me for my enthusiasm?"

"I only love you the more," I said, wondering every instant, in a kind
of horrid undertone, how I was to get him away.

"I admit I wasn't made for diplomacy," he went on. "I wish, I had money
enough to get out of it and take you off the stage, away into some
beautiful, peaceful world, where we need think of nothing but our love
for each other, and the good we might do others because of our love, and
to keep our world beautiful. Would you go with me?"

"Ah, if I could!" I sighed. "If I could go with you to-morrow, away into
that beautiful, peaceful world. But-who knows? Meanwhile--"

"Meanwhile, you don't mean to send me away from you?" he pleaded, in a
coaxing way he has, which is part of his charm, and makes him seem like
a boy. "You don't know what it is, after that scene of your death on the
stage, where I couldn't get to you--where another man was your lover--to
touch you again, alive and warm, your own adorable, vivid self. You
_will_ let me go home with you, in your carriage, anyhow as far as the
house, and kiss you good-night there, even if you're so tired you must
drive me out then?"

I would have given all my success of that night, and more, to say "yes."
But instead I had to stumble into excuses. I had to argue that we
mustn't be seen leaving the theatre together--yet, until everyone knew
that we were engaged. As for letting him come to me at home, if he
dreamt how my head ached, he wouldn't ask it. I almost broke down as I
said this; and poor Raoul was so sorry for me that he immediately
offered to leave me at once.

"It's a great sacrifice, though, to give up what I've been looking
forward to for days," he said, "and to let you go from me to-night of
all nights."

"Why to-night of all nights?", I asked quickly, my coward conscience
frightening me again.

"Only because I love you more than ever, and--it's a stupid feeling, of
course, I suppose all the fault of that last sce