slipping from me; but still I strove
with her as a man battles for his life. I raved, protested, called
earth and heaven to witness her cruelty; but all in vain.

"It would be a sin--a horrible sin!" she kept saying. "God would
never forgive it. No, no; do not try to persuade me--it is
horrible!" and she shuddered.

Utterly beaten at last by her obstinacy, I said--

"I will leave you now to think it over. Let me call again and hear
that you repent."

"No, love; we must never meet again. This must be our last good-bye.
Stay!" and she smiled for the first time since that meeting in the
cemetery. "Come to 'Francesca' to-night; I am going to act."

"What! to-night?"

"Yes. One must live, you see, even though one suffers. See, I have
a ticket for you--for a box. You will come? Promise me."

"Never, Claire."

"Yes, promise me. Do me this last favour; I shall never ask
another."

I took the card in silence.

"And now," she said, "you may kiss me. Kiss me on the lips for the
last time, and may God bless you, my love."

Quite calmly and gently she lifted her lips to mine, and on her face
was the glory of unutterable tenderness.

"Claire! My love, my love!" My arms were round her, her whole form
yielded helplessly to mine, and as our lips met in that one
passionate, shuddering caress, sank on my breast.

"You will not leave me?" I cried.

And through her sobs came the answer--

"Yes, yes; it must be, it must be."

Then drawing herself up, she held out her hand and said--

"To-night, remember, and so--farewell."

And so, in the fading light of that grey December afternoon I left
her standing there.

Mad and distraught with the passion of that parting, I sat that
evening in the shadow of my box and waited for the curtain to rise
upon "Francesca." The Coliseum was crowded to the roof, for it was
known that Clarissa Lambert's illness had been merely a slight
indisposition, and to-night she would again be acting. I was too
busy with my own hard thoughts to pay much attention at first, but I
noticed that my box was the one nearest to the stage, in the tier
next above it. So that once more I should hear my darling's voice,
and see her form close to me. Once or twice I vaguely scanned the
audience. The boxes opposite were full; but, of course, I could see
nothing of my own side of the theatre. After a moment's listless
glance, I leaned back in the shadow and waited.

I do not know who com