ugh her hair, bringing them every now and then
faint whiffs of perfume from the bordering gardens.

"There!" she exclaimed, with a little murmur of content. "That's a man's
action, isn't it? Now I think I am getting brave. I have something to
say to you, Philip."

He felt her fingers seeking his again and held them tightly. It was
curious how in that moment of crisis his thoughts seemed to wander away.
He was watching the little flecks of gold in her hair, wondering if he
had ever properly appreciated the beautiful curve of her neck. Even her
voice seemed somehow attuned to the melody of their surroundings, the
confused song of the birds, the sighing of the lake, the passing of the
west wind through the trees and shrubs around.

"Philip," she began, clinging closely to him, "I have brought you here to
tell you a story which perhaps you will think, when you have heard it,
might better have been told in my dressing-room. Well, I couldn't.
Besides, I wanted to get away. It is about Sylvanus Power."

He sat a little more upright. His nerves were tingling now with
eagerness.

"Yes?"

"I met him," she continued, "eight years ago out West, when I was in a
travelling show. I accepted his attentions at first carelessly enough. I
did not realise the sort of man he was. He was a great personage even in
those days, and I suppose my head was a little turned. Then he began to
follow us everywhere. There was a scandal, of course. In the end I left
the company and came to New York. He went to China, where he has always
had large interests. When I heard that he had sailed--I remember reading
it in the paper--I could have sobbed with joy."

Philip moved a little uneasily in his place. Some instinct told him,
however, how greatly she desired his silence--that she wanted to tell her
story her own way.

"Then followed three miserable years, during which I saw little of him. I
knew that I had talent, I was always sure of making a living, but I got
no further. It didn't seem possible to get any further. Nothing that I
could do or say seemed able to procure for me an engagement in New York.
Think of me for a moment now, Philip, as a woman absolutely and entirely
devoted to her work. I loved it. It absorbed all my thoughts. It was just
the one thing in life I cared anything about. I simply ached to get at
New York, and I couldn't. All the time I had to play on tour, and you
won't quite understand this, dear, but there is nothing so wea