advise you to take
a third and return to your husband. If I were a woman I would prefer
to lie stretched out at the morgue than be the joint possessor of that
man's ill-gotten wealth. We therefore have only the two courses to
consider. Either you continue on the stage as before, take the bought
applause and the flowers paid for by your noble patrons, or return
from whence you came, and be content to shove wheelbarrows for the
rest of your life."

Eveline rose from her seat, drew her wrap round her shoulders, and,
with a low, constrained voice, murmured:

"Thank you." Then she silently left the room.

Tears came into Arpad's eyes. But why had she come here? Why had she
disturbed him when he was happy painting? The moment she had closed
the door he returned to the table and took from the drawer _his
flower_, to see if it had sustained any injury. It was in one sense a
flower--a fair child with blue eyes!

The door opened again; the picture was hastily concealed. No one,
however, came in. Arpad's mother spoke through the half-opened door.

"Arpad, my son, who was that beautiful lady who was here just now? A
princess, was she not?"

"She was a poor woman who came to beg from me."

"H'm! Surprising! What extraordinary beggars there are in this
city--beggars dressed in silk, with a Persian shawl for a wrap. Did
you give her anything, Arpad?"

"Mother, I had nothing to give her."

"You have done well, my boy." And she shut the door and went back to
her own room to finish stitching at her son's shirt-collar.

CHAPTER XXXIII

CHARCOAL

Eveline had resolved to make a great effort. She recognized that there
was truth in what Arpad had said; only in one particular he was wrong:
he had not measured the gulf between "can" and "must."

She felt herself possessed by sudden energy; her resolution to succeed
grew in proportion as her chance of success was less. Many people have
found strength in the thought, "If I have no one to care for me, I, at
least, am master of myself." She would carve her own future; she
_would_ be an actress. She would show the world what was in her. She
would nerve herself to courage before the footlights. The very
circumstances which had deprived her of all courage would now give her
strength; she would sing to the public as if she were alone. The crowd
should go for nothing, except in being sharers in her triumph.

She spent a miserable night. The luxury which surrounded her, the
wo