life was consumed with the one eager
desire to see her. He went night after night to the box; he sat in the
same place; he leaned his arms on the same spot, watching her with eyes
that seemed to flash fire as they rested on her.

People remarked it at last, and began to wonder if it could be possible
that Lord Chandos, with that beautiful wife, the queen of blondes, was
beginning to care for La Vanira; he never missed one night of her
acting, and he saw nothing but her when she was on the stage.

Again one evening Lady Chandos said to him:

"Lance, have you noticed how seldom you spend an evening--that is, the
whole of an evening--with me? If you go to a ball with me, it seems to
me that you are always absent for an hour or two."

"You have a vivid imagination, my dear wife," he replied.

And yet he knew it was on the night Leone played; he could no more have
kept from going to see her than he could have flown; it was stronger
than himself, the impulse that led him there.

Then his nights became all fever; his days all unrest; his whole heart
and soul craved with passionate longing for one half hour with her, and
yet he dared not seek it. Even then, had he striven to conquer his love,
and have resolutely thought of his duty, his good faith and his loyalty,
he would have conquered, as any strong man can conquer when he likes; he
never tried. When the impulse led him, he went; when the temptation came
to him to think of her, he thought of her, when the temptation came to
him to love her, he gave way to it and never once set his will against
it.

Then, when the fever of his longing consumed him, and his life had grown
intolerable to him, he wrote a note to her; it said simply:

"DEAR LEONE,--Life is very sad. Do let us be friends--why should we
not? Life is so short. Let us be friends. I am very miserable;
seeing you sometimes would make me happy. Let us be friends, Leone.
Why refuse me? I will never speak of love--the word shall never be
mentioned. You shall be to me like my dearest, best-beloved sister.
I will be your brother, your servant, and your friend; only give
me, for God's dear sake, the comfort of seeing you. Leone, be
friends."

It was one evening when she was tired that this letter was brought to
her. She read it with weeping eyes; life was hard; she found it so. She
loved her art, she lived in it, but she was only a woman, and she wanted
the comfort of a human