had made a fortune for her Pa. Oh, if that
wasn't enough to make her chuck everything and see life, in her turn. She
had only to choose ...

These reflections came to her more particularly when she returned to
Paris, after Brussels and Copenhagen, and was again performing at the
Bijou Theater, where she had already appeared.

"To make all that money," thought Lily, when she saw Poland again, "and
never to have been through the mill!"

She admired Poland for that, envied her good manners, her grace, the way
she slipped on her dressing-wrap in the living picture, _The Bath_. She
turned green with jealousy at the sight of Poland's motor-car, her
thousand-pound ear-rings, her sable furs. It was not that Lily lacked
admirers or sympathizers. She even had a little triumph at the Bijou
Theater, one day when she passed round the hat for old Martello, who was
ill in bed and penniless. Lily topped the bill in her own fashion, by
putting her name at the head of the list, and the collection was a
success, everybody contributed ... including the architect, who was still
prowling round her, in the passages, on the stage, everywhere. Lily was
decidedly courted: the rich bookmaker who ran the theater as his private
harem, he, too, patted her cheek in a funny way, complimented her on her
firm, round hips before the group of dancing-girls packed like poultry, in
the shadow of the pillars. Gee, it only rested with herself to have as
much of that as Poland! And everything reeked with love, amid the
cannonade of the big drums and the clash of the cymbals, while the sudden
flashes of the reflectors, moonlight-blue on one side, bright-red on the
other, lit up all around her the herd of the languid Hours. But her heart
swelled and puffed with pride. No, no, not that! She would succeed by her
talent, damn it, not by getting round men! She, an English girl; she, Pa's
daughter; she, who had gone through the mill, to sell herself like cat's
meat! Never! And her Ma should beg her pardon on her knees, on her knees,
damn it! The thought infuriated her.

She was quite sincere with herself. It was all her fault. She ought to
have worked and practised, practised every day, improved and improved her
turn; but she would do so now, to-morrow. It was her last chance. She had
hardly any money left; her three years' book was virgin once again,
unsoiled by contracts; but she had a stage to practise on and she was
going to practise to-morrow even if she had