place in my heart, it would be to one who was as free and
independent as I am. He should owe nothing to great people; he should
depend absolutely on his own genius; live absolutely by his own work.
He should be esteemed not for his money nor his rank, but for his
talent; he should glory in being an artist."

This was a frank confession for any one who understood. Arpad
understood; he became more discontented.

"H'm! Then I am afraid you are walking in a path that leads you away
from such a man as you describe."

"What _do you_ mean?"

Arpad got up from his chair. "Artists have many strange ideas; these
are inseparable from the artistic temperament. Do you see that antique
goblet there in the centre of the table? It was a present to me from
Count Demidoff on the occasion of a concert. It was an heirloom in his
family. It is a wonderful relic; a classical work. Princes, generals,
rulers have drunk out of it. I have a great respect for it, and I keep
my visitors' cards in it. But I never drink out of it; I prefer a
common glass, for which I have paid fifteen pence, but out of which no
one has drunk but myself."

Eveline flushed deeply at this cruel speech.

Arpad had, however, resolved to make the matter still clearer.

"You say," he went on, "that you would like to find an artist, a
genius, a proud, independent man; him you would choose for your
husband! And you imagine that a man of this type would submit to sit
by your side as you drove in the Champs Elysees, knowing that the
people driving behind in other carriages or walking along the path
were saying, 'There is the curled and scented Hyperion, but the steeds
that draw him are not paid for by _his_ muse, they are the
blood-horses of Prince X----; and his wife is not content with the
glory of _his_ name, she wears the diamonds provided by Marquis
G----.' Do you think you will easily find such a husband?"

Poor Eveline! She tried to defend herself against this cruel boy.

"But I am ready to throw away all splendor--everything that is not
earned by my honest labor. I wish to live by my art, to be what I
am--an actress. I would work night and day to perfect myself. I do not
want any other distinction but that of an artist."

Arpad then told her what she had never heard until now. Children and
fools speak the truth, and in Arpad there was a mixture of both; he
was a child in years, and a fool as regarded the claims of art.

"My dear Eveline, you are not an art