g, filled him with shame
and anger. Yet she was going to sing in a theatre if possible; and
Roland had said a great deal about the fisher dances of various
countries and how effective they would be with the songs.

At first she had refused to tolerate the idea; she could not imagine
herself dancing to amuse a crowd of strangers--dancing for money. She
thought of Herodias dancing the Baptist's head off, and she said
solemnly to Roland, and with the utmost sincerity, that she dared not
dance. It was the broad road to perdition. Roland had not cared to
argue with such a prejudice. He knew well that the dancing would
follow the public singing, as naturally as the singing followed the
professional orchestra. But he said then, as he said frequently
afterward: "It is such a pity, Denas, you have not a mother you can
advise with and who could help and encourage you. It just locks a girl
up in a box to be born a Methodist!"

This attitude of Roland's was a very cruel one. It taught Denas to
feel that her secrecy was not her fault. She continually told herself
that she would have been glad to talk over her future plans with her
parents if they would only have listened to her; that it was not her
fault if they were unreasonable and bigoted--not her fault if her mind
had grown beyond her surroundings; that her father and mother ought
to consider that her education and her companionship with Elizabeth
Tresham had led naturally to the craving for a wider life; and that if
they give the first they ought in common justice to be ready to
consider the consequences with her.

"But they will not," she thought angrily. "They want me to settle down
and be content with Tris Penrose. I dare not tell them that Roland
loves me. Roland dare not tell them either. I cannot say a word to
them about my voice and the money it may make. Roland says any
reasonable father and mother would be quite excited at the prospect
and glad to go to London with me. But will my father and mother do so?
Oh, no! In order to do myself justice I am obliged to run away. It is
too bad! Any sensible person would feel sorry for me."

With such specious reasoning she satisfied her conscience, and the
afternoon wore away in gathering gloom and fierce scuds of rain. It
was nearly dark at four o'clock, and she rose and brought a small
round table to the hearth and began to put on it the tea-cups and the
bread and butter. As she did so Joan entered the room. Her arms were
f