Dearborn out of a profound sleep, in which
the playwright was dreaming of two hundred night performances.

"Bob, can you let me have a few francs?"

"In my vest pocket," said Dearborn. "Take what you like."

Tony paid his cab out of the change and realized that it was some of the
money from Dearborn's advance royalties. It gave him pleasure to think
that he was spending money which had been made by art. It was "serious
money." He did not hesitate to use it. He sat by the table when he came
in from paying his cab and fell into a heavy sleep, his head upon his
arm. Thus the two friends slumbered until noon, Dearborn dreaming of
fame and Antony of despair.

At two o'clock that afternoon, bathed and dressed, himself again save
for a certain bewilderment in his head, he stood in his window looking
out on the quays. Underneath, Nora Scarlet and Dearborn passed
arm-in-arm. They were going to Versailles to talk of love, of fame and
artistic struggle, under the trees. Antony heard the shuffling of his
old concierge on the stairs. He knew that the man was bringing him a
letter and that it would be from Mary.

With the letter between his hands, he waited some few minutes before
opening it. He finally read it, sitting forward on the divan, his face
set.

"DEAREST," it began, and then there was a long space as though the
woman could not bear to write the words, "You will never be able to
judge me fairly. I cannot ask it of you. You are too much of a
genius to understand a mere woman. I am writing you in my boudoir,
just where you came to me that day when you told me your love and
when I wept to hear it, dearest. I shall cry again, thinking of it,
many times. I have done you a great wrong in taking ever so little
of you, and taking even those few months from the work which shall
mean so much to the world. Now I am glad I have found it out before
it is too late. I have no right to you, Tony. In answer to what you
asked me yesterday, I say no. You will not believe it is for your
sake, dear, but it is. I see you could not share my life in any
way, and keep your ideals. How could I ask you to? I see I could
not share your struggle and leave you free enough to keep your
ideals.

"I can never quite believe that love is a mistake. I shall think of
mine for you the rest of my life. When you read this letter I shall
have left Paris. Do not try to