ic
inspirations would soon fade. There he must bury all the finest of his
soul. Then, no doubt, he would marry and have children; and then--well,
life would stretch out into a long, straight line, unwavering, with
never any depths or heights, lost in the monotony of a blank desert.
What could be more terrible than to know just what we are destined to be
in ten years, in twenty years, in thirty?

The poor student tugged at his hair, in desperation, and tears blurred
his sight. How he would have loved to be rich, to have no family, to be
the sport of the unforeseen! For is not the unforeseen pregnant with all
the vicissitudes of poetry? He felt the blood of conquerors pulsing in
his arteries, the energies of bold adventurers who dare brave perils and
emprise, and leave their bones on far-off shores. This fighting strain,
this crave for danger, filled him with boundless melancholy as he
reflected that he must live on, on to old age, and do no differently
than all other men do, year by year. Destiny meant for him no more than
this: to follow a costly, hard and tedious career merely that he might
make a pittance, get a wife and find some hole or corner to live
in--some poor, mean little house in a world of palaces, some commonplace
love in a world throbbing with so many passions, some paltry dole in a
world crowded with so many fortunes!

Whipped by the music, the foolish grief of Enrique Darles broke into
sobs.

Now the second act was done, and Don Manuel and Alicia came into the
outer box. The young woman's eyes--green, eloquent eyes--filled with
astonishment.

"What?" she asked. "You're crying?"

Before the student could answer, she turned to her companion and said:

"What do you think about that, now? He's been crying!"

In shame, Enrique answered:

"I don't know. I--I'm upset. But--yes, maybe----"

She smiled, and asked:

"You've got a sweetheart, haven't you?"

"No, no, Senorita."

"Well then, why----?"

"It's all foolishness, I know, but every time I hear music--even bad
music--it makes me sad."

"That's funny! _I_ don't feel that way!"

The red-faced, thick-set Don Manuel shrugged his square shoulders as
much as to say it mattered nothing, and introduced them to each other.
Enrique's feverish hand held for a moment the cool, soft hand--snow and
velvet--of Little Goldie. Then all three sat down on the same divan,
Alicia between the two men. Don Manuel drew out his cigar-case.

"Smoke?" asked he.