did she think of during those hours of frenzied vision? Was it of
Lukos, waiting in an eastern prison for the news that would set him free
to join her? Was it her dead son, the little boy she had spoken of to
Lionel? Or Turkey, the land of her adoption, struggling for freedom,
enmeshed with perils, the slave of diplomatic and selfish adventures?
Her art--had it a place within those weary wheels of thought; her
success on the stage, the triumphs of the footlights--illusory, but so
real in seeming, so satisfying and complete? Or Lionel--did he whip her
straining fancies to a wilder effort toward the goal? Something of all
these may have engaged her, for each was inextricably interwoven with
the others. Lukos--Lionel--the sultan--Mizza--the Hedderwicks--the
ambassador--a hundred minor characters, "supers" in the drama of her
life, wheeled hither and thither, mocking, defying, questioning. The
horrible lines of Wilde burned in letters of fire upon the wall:

"Slim shadows hand in hand:
About, about, in ghostly rout
They trod a saraband:
And the damned grotesques made arabesques,
Like the wind upon the sand."

Each must have had his place in the drama, but the important question
was, who played the lead? Lukos or Lionel--honor and faith or ...
inclination? Yet that is hardly a fair way of putting it: she must not
define her interest as inclination, hinting at something more potent.
Interest one may admit without qualification: Lionel had saved her life,
was an attractive and pleasant young man, and had been her guest for a
week. Of course Beatrice was interested; she would have been hard or
inhuman otherwise. But did her inclination show signs of becoming
something more? Could she honestly say in the stereotyped phrase that
"he was nothing to her?"--nothing being the antithesis of everything. In
that sense she could say it, for he was certainly not everything. But
was "nothing" exact? Ah!...

At least she must have found comfort in the reflection that she had sent
him away on an errand that would avert all danger, if successfully
carried out. She had been ... weak ... once or twice, but such a
weakness may find a ready forgiveness, considering the circumstances and
the expiation. Which of us, oh, censorious reader, would have been as
strong as Beatrice?

Still, she could not sleep, and for the present that outweighed all
moral hesitations and scruples. At seven o'clock she gave up the unequal