he sake of those poor doomed beings cut off from earthly love we'll
love each other as the angels love."

"Yes, that is the highest, purest, truest love, no doubt. Still----"

"What does the old Talmud say?--'He who divorces himself from the joys of
earth weds himself to the glories of Paradise.'"

Her lashes were still wet; she was gazing deep into his eyes.

"And to think of being united in the next world, Glory--what happiness,
what ecstasy!"

"Love me in this world, dearest," she whispered.

"You'll be their youth, Glory, their strength, their loveliness!"

"Be mine, darling, be mine!"

But the furrow crossed his brow a second time, and he disengaged himself
before their lips had met again. Then he walked about the room as before,
talking in broken sentences. They would have to leave soon--very
soon--almost at once. And now he must go back to Soho. There was so much
to do, to arrange. On reaching the door he hesitated, quivering with
love, hardly knowing how to part from her. She was standing with head
down, half angry and half ashamed.

"Well, _au revoir_," he cried in a strained voice, and then fled down the
stairs. "The Father was right," he thought. "No man is invincible. But,
thank God, it is over! It can never occur again!"

Her glow had left her, and she felt chilled and lost There was no help
for it now, and escape was impossible. She must renounce everything for
the man who had renounced everything for her. Sitting on the couch, she
dropped her head on the cushion and cried like a child. In the lowest
depths of her soul she knew full well that she could never go away, but
she began to bid good-bye in her heart to the life she had been living.
The charm and fascination of London began to pass before her like a
panorama, with all the scenes of misery and squalor left out. What a
beautiful world she was leaving behind her! She would remember it all her
life long with useless and unending regret. Her tears were flowing
through the fingers which were clasped beneath her face.

A postman's knock came to the door downstairs. The letter was from the
manager, written in the swirl and rush of theatrical life, and reading
like a telegram: "Theatre going on rapidly, men working day and night,
rehearsals advanced and scenery progressing; might we not fix this day
fortnight for the first performance?"

Inclosed with this was a letter from the author: "You are on the eve of
an extraordinary success, dear Glor