ations upon them, and the conclusions she drew from their maimed
lives only emphasized the resisting force of her nature. She was not
born to be a leaf in the current, whirled by the force of waters into a
safe haven or an engulfing whirlpool as chance might decide; she must
dominate the currents.

And with the temptations of her youth, and her ardent emotional
temperament, would also come the remembrance of those haggard girls with
their pinched blue lips, the suffering in their eyes, their delicate
faces aged and yellowed and lined and spoiled, weeping with shaking
sobs, telling her pitiful stories, and begging her for money, for a word
with the management. And, when they had gone, she had turned to her
looking-glass and gazed at herself with conscious pride and delight.
Contempt, not pity, stirred her heart for the draggled butterflies whose
gauzy irridescence was but for a moment; and before her mirror she
constantly renewed her vows that never would she barter her bloom, her
freshness, her exquisite grace for what those girls had to show.

She had seen a great French actress roll across the desert in her
private car, to meet in every city the adulation of thousands and it had
stimulated her ambition enormously. She was by nature as insatiable as
the horse-leech's daughter; she would take all--love, money, jewels in
return for her barren coquetries. The fact that she was "straight," as
she phrased it, gave her sufficient excuse for her arrogant domination.

Unfortunately for Hanson, there was no particular temptation in what he
could offer in the way of professional advancement. She was perfectly
cognizant of her own ability, aware that its resources were scarcely
developed. Already her field widened continually. She was in perpetual
demand with her public, and therefore with her managers.

But she loved Hanson. In all of the love affairs in which she had been
involved she had never really cared before, and now only her strong will
kept this attraction from proving overmastering. And here came the
struggle. The right or the wrong of the matter, the morals of it, did
not touch her. It was the clash of differing desires, a clash between
passion and this secret, long-cherished pride of virtue.

"Honey, honey," he was back at her side again; his voice was hoarse and
ragged, but for that very reason it moved her. All at once the
primitive woman, loving, yielding, glad and proud to yield, stirred in
her, rose and domi