desolate, so
lonely, nothing seemed to matter.

"She went from triumph to triumph. She carried all before her. He took
her to New York, and she conquered there. They strewed her path with
roses. They almost worshipped her. She tried to think she was happy, but
she was not--even then. They came around her in crowds. They made love
to her. She was young, and their homage was like a coloured ball to
her. She tossed it to and fro, and played with it. But she made game of
it all. They were nothing to her--nothing, till one day there came to
her a boy--no, he was past his boyhood--a young man--rich, well-born,
and honourable. And he--he loved her, and offered her--marriage. No one
had ever offered her that before. Can you realize--but no, you are a
man!--what it meant to her? It meant shelter and peace and freedom. It
meant honour and kindness, and the chance to be good. Perhaps you think
she would not care for that. But you do not know her. Rosa Mundi was
meant to be good. She hungered for goodness. She was tired--so tired of
the gaudy vanities of life, so--so--what is the word--so nauseated with
the cheap and the bad. Are you sorry for her, I wonder? Can you picture
her, longing--oh, longing--for what she calls respectability? And
then--this chance, this offer of deliverance! It meant giving up her
career, of course. It meant changing her whole life. It meant
sacrifice--the sort of sacrifice that you ought to be able to
understand--for she loved her dancing and her triumphs, just as you love
your public--the people who read your books and love you for their sake.
That is different, isn't it, from the people who follow you about and
want to stare at you just because you are prosperous and popular? The
people who really appreciate your art--those are the people you would
not disappoint for all the world. They make up a vast friendship that
is very precious, and it would be a sacrifice--a big--sacrifice--to give
it up. That is the sort of sacrifice that marriage meant to Rosa Mundi.
And though she wanted marriage--and she wanted to be good--she
hesitated."

There was a little pause. Randal Courteney was no longer dissembling his
interest. He had laid his pipe aside, and was watching with unvarying
intentness the downcast childish face. He asked no questions. There was
something in the low-spoken words that held him silent. Perhaps he
feared to probe too deep.

In a few moments she went on, gathering up a little handful of