f the virtues whereof the heroes and heroines of romance are
so prolific. Usually nothing occurs to disillusion us about ourselves.
But now and then fate, in unusually brutal ironic mood, forces us to
see the real reason why we did this or that virtuous, self-sacrificing
action, or blossomed forth in this or that nobility of character.
Mildred was destined now to suffer one of these savage blows of
disillusionment about self that thrust us down from the exalted moral
heights where we have been preening into humble kinship with the weak
and frail human race. She saw why she had refused Stanley, why she had
stopped "borrowing," why she had put off going to the theatrical
managers, why she had delayed moving into quarters within her
diminished and rapidly diminishing means. She had been counting on
Donald Keith. She had convinced herself that he loved her even as she
loved him. He would fling away his cold reserve, would burst into
raptures over her virtue and her courage, would ask her to marry him.
Or, if he should put off that, he would at least undertake the
responsibility of getting her started in her career. Well! He had
come; he had shown that Stanley had told him all or practically all;
and he had gone, without asking a sympathetic question or making an
encouraging remark. As indifferent as he seemed. Burnt out, cold,
heartless. She had leaned upon him; he had slipped away, leaving her to
fall painfully, and ludicrously, to the ground. She had been boasting
to herself that she was strong, that she would of her own strength
establish herself in independence. She had not dreamed that she would
be called upon to "make good." She raved against Keith, against
herself, against fate. And above the chaos and the wreck within her,
round and round, hither and yon, flapped and shied the black thought,
"What SHALL I do?"

When she sat up and dried her eyes, she chanced to see the paper Keith
had left; with wonder at her having forgotten it and with a throb of
hope she opened and began to read his small, difficult writing:

A career means self-denial. Not occasional, intermittent, but steady,
constant, daily, hourly--a purpose that never relaxes.

A career as a singer means not only the routine, the patient tedious
work, the cutting out of time-wasting people and time-wasting pleasures
that are necessary to any and all careers. It means in addition--for
such a person--sacrifices far beyond a character so undis