when it told him that she had originally written,
"Votre sante m'est precieuse," and had scrabbled out the "m." "Your
health is precious to me." That is what her heart had said. Did lover
ever have a dearer mistress? He kissed the blot, and the thick French
ink coming off on his lips was nectar.

And he began his letters with "My dear Princess;" then it was "Dearest
Princess;" then "My Princess." Then she rallied him on the matter. It
came to "Mais enfin j'ai un petit nom comme tout le monde." In common
with the rest of humanity she had a Christian name--and she was
accustomed to be called by it by her frank and loyal friends. "And they
are so few." Paul heard the delicate little sigh and saw the delicate
rise and fall of the white bosom. And again he fed on purple ink. So he
began his next letter with "Dear Sophie." But he could not pour the
same emotion into "Dear Sophie" as he could into "My Princess"--and "My
Sophie" was a step beyond the bounds of frank and loyal friendship. So
it came to his apostrophizing her as "Dear" and scattering "Sophies"
deliciously through the text. And so the frank and loyal friendship
went on its appointed course, as every frank and loyal friendship
between two young and ardent souls who love each other has proceeded
since the beginning of a sophisticated world.

The first three months of that year were a period of enchantment. He
lived supremely. The daily round of work was trivial play. He rose at
seven, went to bed at two, crowded the nineteen hours of wakefulness
with glorious endeavour. He went all over the country with his flambeau
eveilleur, awakening the Youth of England, finding at last the great
artistic gift the gods had given him, the gift of oratory. One day he
reminded Jane of a talk long ago when he had fled from the studios:
"You asked me how I was going to earn my living. I said I was going to
follow one of the Arts."

"I remember," said Jane, regarding him full-eyed. "You said you thought
you were a poet--but you might be a musician or painter. Finally you
decided you were an actor."

He laughed his gay laugh. "I was an infernally bad actor," he
acknowledged.

Then he explained his failure on the stage. He was impatient of other
people's inventions, wanting to play not Hamlet or Tom or Dick or Romeo
or Harry, but himself. Now he could play himself. It was acting in a
way. Anyhow it was an Art; so his boyish prophecy had come true. He had
been struggling from child