ie."

I drew my chair close to the bed, and for awhile, between his fits
of coughing, we talked of things that were outside our thoughts, or,
rather, Hal talked, continuously, boisterously, meeting my remonstrances
with shouts of laughter, ending in wild struggles for breath, so that I
deemed it better to let him work his mad mood out.

Then suddenly: "What is she doing?" he asked. "Do you ever see her?"

"She is playing in--" I mentioned the name of a comic opera then running
in Paris. "No; I have not seen her for some time."

He laid his white, wasted hand on mine. "What a pity you and I could not
have rolled ourselves into one, Paul--you, the saint, and I, the satyr.
Together we should have made her perfect lover."

There came back to me the memory of those long nights when I had lain
awake listening to the angry voices of my father and mother soaking
through the flimsy wall. It seemed my fate to stand thus helpless
between those I loved, watching them hurting one another against their
will.

"Tell me," I asked--"I loved her, knowing her: I was not blind. Whose
fault was it? Yours or hers?"

He laughed. "Whose fault, Paul? God made us."

Thinking of her fair, sweet face, I hated him for his mocking laugh. But
the next moment, looking into his deep eyes, seeing the pain that dwelt
there, my pity was for him. A smile came to his ugly mouth.

"You have been on the stage, Paul; you must have heard the saying often:
'Ah, well, the curtain must come down, however badly things are going.'
It is only a play, Paul. We do not choose our parts. I did not even
know I was the villain, till I heard the booing of the gallery. I even
thought I was the hero, full of noble sentiment, sacrificing myself for
the happiness of the heroine. She would have married me in the beginning
had I plagued her sufficiently."

I made to speak, but he interrupted me, continuing: "Ah, yes, it might
have been better. That is easy to say, not knowing. So, too, it might
have been worse--in all probability much the same. All roads lead to
the end. You know I was always a fatalist, Paul. We tried both ways. She
loved me well enough, but she loved the world also. I thought she
loved it better, so I kissed her on her brow, mumbled a prayer for her
happiness and made my exit to a choking sob. So ended the first act.
Wasn't I the hero throughout that, Paul? I thought so; slapped myself
upon the back, told myself what a fine fellow I had been. Then--y