t him. I shall spend my life in
flying from myself."

After a pause she went on: "I shall never speak to anyone as
I have spoken to you. You will understand all. I had the
best--the man who could have given me all a woman seeks from
a man--love, companionship, sympathy, the shelter of strong
arms. I had that. I have lost it. So----"

A long pause. Then she added:

"Usually life is almost tasteless to me. Again--for an hour
or two it is a little less so--until I remember what I have
lost. Then--the taste is very bitter--very bitter."

And she turned away.

She is a famous actress, reputed great. Some day she will be
indeed great--when she has the stage experience and the years.
Except for Clelie, she is alone. Not that there have been no
friendships in her life. There have even been passions. With
men and women of her vigor and vitality, passion is
inevitable. But those she admits find that she has little to
give, and they go away, she making no effort to detain them;
or she finds that she has nothing to give, and sends them away
as gently as may be. She has the reputation of caring for
nothing but her art--and for the great establishment for
orphans up the Hudson, into which about all her earnings go.
The establishment is named for Brent and is dedicated to her
mother. Is she happy? I do not know. I do not think she
knows. Probably she is--as long as she can avoid pausing to
think whether she is or not. What better happiness can
intelligent mortal have, or hope for? Certainly she is
triumphant, is lifted high above the storms that tortured her
girlhood and early youth, the sordid woes that make life an
unrelieved tragedy of calamity threatened and calamity realized
for the masses of mankind. The last time I saw her----

It was a few evenings ago, and she was crossing the sidewalk
before her house toward the big limousine that was to take her
to the theater. She is still young; she looked even younger
than she is. Her dress had the same exquisite quality that
made her the talk of Paris in the days of her sojourn there.
But it is not her dress that most interests me, nor the luxury
and perfection of all her surroundings. It is not even her
beauty--that is, the whole of her beauty.

Everything and every being that is individual in appearance
has some one quality, trait, characteristic, which stands out
above all the rest to make a climax of interest and charm.
With the rose it is it