DESPERATE LOVE.

New Zealand Herald, Volume LXI, Issue 18771, 26 July 1924, Page 5 (Supplement)

DESPERATE LOVE.

BY CAnt.TONij j&WE. - jnfW of "Euryala in Ijorndnn;'* "Y?llov »ad White." " T£e Back' Spider/ A ~ ■ .-..,,' ". ; fiiide '..of ' Jipsa,"- "«$c '

(Copyright.) - . CHAPTER XV. - ■ THS STDMUNO OF MEMORY. They pulled up in Paris on their, way -'■'"'■' f'liome. The soring was late.and coldi|-BBd Dolora begged that- they might let Engv land wait until the Slimmer. She dreadjjd ; v the spiing in England, having neard suiih ' alarming accounts of it, and though lie was reluctaitit to remain any longet abroad her wish \wcs still his law. Besides, by ;■ waiting: for the early summer, she would : see Englifnd in all - fit** glory, aud first, impressions meant much to a woman of her ' temperament. He realised jthat this wife of his was'a singular exotic creature who '■: required very delicate cons*deralion. A 'rough word, an abrupt' action, would \ bring that look of reproacn to her eyes wh ; ch trained more than the bHteresfc denunciation. A woman of sfcrange whims, of strsn-e tho-ghts, he found his office of hrshind no sinecnre, pnt as ho Was i e-v-eedjtrl '.• f'eep, in love there was still delight in "drty. . , As she bated hotels, and he bad no great ,lovo lor them, they settled' them-' .selves in a flat in the Avenue d'lena, whore ha, hoped at lea«t to escape all 'observation. But it was not loner before the nawsria'im informed the pubHe thai the celebrated camatrice, Madame Moliari, was in their midst. Then fob' lowed the u«ual interviews, and her udr- i trait was once more disseminated far and wide. "The public would learn with regret." etc., that the renowned diva had 'definitely abandoned the stage; Never would this beautiful artist delight 'the Parisians: all who saw her performance as Circe;, two yearjt ago, wou-d J; lament her unalterable decision. Much -more of the same sort was printed. Courtray read it all with very mixed feelings. For a whole year he had tried to forget the stage and her associations with it. Perhaps it was this trying to forget tnat was bis o n e action w'-icb did ; not wholly meet with ber approval. If he had given her much, she also had abandoned much. His wife was no ordinary woman. She had her place in the world, and no rndisting"ished nlaca e ; fher. Sometimes she be forgot this; it was like a mnn to think he was giving all. "You don't like their corning to me'?" .she said, referring t© the- enthusiastic interviewers. "I'm jea'ous and selfish ! I want you all co myself." /,, "Yet it is inevitable. They have not forgotten me. and it's something to be oremembered by a world which forgets so -quickly," "I see one of these fellows hints at the possibility of your reappearance. Of course we must squash that rumour at once." He crumpled up the paper and fluncr it aside. She laughed.' "Let their hint; it amuses them and interests the public." "But it's not true." i "What does it matter ? If I were to contradict everything that is written of me I should find life too short for rhe task. Besides, as an artist, I cannot regret that I am not forgotten. It was all my life before you came; it was a big thing to me, though you seem to think -little of it."' "But I don't-. On the contrary, I think that .perhaps the biggest thing you «vujt did. my dear, was to give it all up." ; "I give it .up for you," "And I fully aopreciate the sacrifice, > find your devotion." ■ . "It needed courage," she "You never saw mein the part." T "u S y ° U are ' yOU aM in ailto 816, I should hate to see my wife grimacing ;•-';• to please the mob." , ■''■■# '■■■■: "Oh, la la ! But pardon -me, Ido not I am an artist. You have beran in two many wild places, my dear, too far from civilisation. *It is a pity." ; , He laughed. "I believe you still hanker for tha flesh-pots." - |'Jt must be the atmosnhere''of Paris." ' ' Then the sooner we get out of it the ■ ' : better."!.."; . ..,. , her attitude was curious, not to say aiarmmg. Subconsciously he seamed i?rt. I£e a ' gfadual change in her. When he looked for the" difference he was unable to find it, though at times there was an unpleasant Teeing that it was. somewhere in his immediate vicinity. Then he would grow angry with himself- at the thought ot Kieh disloyalty to her, and roak© atope- . ment in many gracious ways. But a new look had come into ■ her eyes, a singular smile to her lips/' and both look «ind smile suggested the- unspoken thought. It baffledi him. and then atnoyed, for it was like holding a secret from him. He could not rid himself of this thought, thoygh he was careful to give no sign > . of it. To destroy confidence was to de- .._. ffitroy all.' ~ ' ■ He could not lenovr for example, for she had not told him, that Monsieur Laroche,, ens of the principal directors of ,ihe Opera Coniique, had already ap proached her with a view to her reap- *..:■•" pearance as Circe. //The: terms were generous; she should diocise her own support; the ;anuoancemeht would set all Paris agog/ Indeed, every inducement was offered to gain her consent, but she ; shook her head. She had definitely decided; husband would not hear of it. Monsieur Laroche shrugged his heavy shoulders, spread wide the palm 3 of his bands, and showed the whitea of his eyea, -which were none too white. Husband! He did not say what he thought of such husbands, bat both look and gesture were . ■{. . singularly suggestive. " The offer will remaiin open," he said, r "should madame change her mind. " Ah, monsieur se*a," she replied, **that.l am not alone in.this matter." "And if madame were?" "Ah, who knows! Your offer appeals to me as an artist." "It is to th& artist I appeal. It would '--.• be a thousand pities, madame." . " Pezhaps it is, monsieur.'" '>:■■ »'■■*•,' And bo the se/id grew. It was after V this that Philip Courtray noticed tt«e marked change in his wife. 1 here were - , times when her restlessness suggested; a ; '"'\ nervous breakdown. He grew alartaed„ s sohcitous; wondered even if it was due -to the quiet life they lived. He remeni- ,- bered that first meeting in Price when -: z } she came us Circe to the ball, and the -•/-. sensation she created. She was a oueen in t : ; ; her own wo.'id, flattered, bowd down to; ' of interest to all, and revelling in hep ; i power. He could still 6ee the staring ..crowds that, surrounded the tables at ... which she placed in Monte Carlo, io- ■: .gethot* they had laughed at them; but it ~ was all a Fymbol of the glory of this world, a man»icsiation of her place in tne sun, a t ibute to her position. And tor ,■' hirn she had flung it all awav, cast her crown at his feet, ; spread her purpio ; - e'eak for him to walk on. When he thought of f'.ese things imn'Tirat'on flsyed sad l tricks with him. Ha v :, '. : "" knw he had given her much; bat had :: his generosity equalled hers? What monarch, thou.h deprived of his crown. ■was li' ely to forpefc his kingship, or r<ii- ; fu?e theolTur of restoration? It wt;s exile, andisui-h has rev: r been knows ,:;.:. to ar-n";;l do'jroiied jnnnnrhE, how--1 ever j.-hijosoiliy jjiav rail at th > vcm'tv of :'■'■;■■'__ ' h man ■wi- : h,e'3" i -'"' : "P<!r : ',ro'irt/wa> . shut-'. .:\f: t\; h;:r :; '■■ je Js al'i-Tidy fcrmuig a .".ne.vf • '■:"'..; -.a'- ■-.; nee. H" had p'-'i nv: 1; of Ivor, a;?- ; rncra than he h"-d a.ri ht.to aoii. '"' .' :i <•-•-.. (i" a y. C'u-lftiii e-llftdi' : It .was -:;;'.. al. ', ! vp.u">re. b t he' Was■■'deFpcratalVlhjS ;. ,: 'c -o --.. oi ?\t;:\3 .bad nVjt: : be>n, piopitioui to -- : i .. 'i ,r- .-."'"•t. :<r<l. ovt- ::-'':';;:':': v.v; Mv'-j--' '-..;'.,' • r---^ ; ris ■■'•J-'H rh-.s'e.'iod. . :'".''.■?"■■ c." :i:' ..v..-, «:v .;. ; 'i:-r . h'er ' evts as'.] . si & i „n:fd mj c -v' .It fine bold ] zv. iJ, th?i toialy prmtcd.. . " Ur-! fc?it " hv \y-\i i •rawlt-i:'; )>:■ ■■ve romer, ; anii not in ..ond;. },v.''- T '■ i-v the vj,-.w h'd lea tl;e oi iisich cartful tl..s.iht. : . -*-:":;.' '~..: }lrr fi":t i - 'clina i~n iwrs to refuse him ;■■"'.■' ar'mlssi'm; tn'n sui ?, ien memory of ';.■■•■■■ old asic-fi'i.t oh inclined her to cornpro- ■.■.'-•..';' mlse. He i id s-iid that she would cvjue r : to him: \v il, he. weß to her in- -::.>-.. ji--- -Bt'-a;'.- P.:/t -shif v.«is human enough to" .;; kei'p.hJm cuv'o -s, this " om ' ;m >■• arcess of dignity uy ka in - ;-.''!-.'.' t :■ 11:1 in doubt. : ; /He cnte.tt) t y ~uge, but oy no means >£l'\"i' V: s. . .'..■.! h'oi th;> had .dfl- . "pUtvid from Li '; even his rlotiies bad iiiK-au unto themseives a soberer haft, in-

deed, there was littie of his former magMnccnce lefts though he still ;wora a large tie -flowing in artistic negligent. His face was puffy, but paler than sh«i remembered it; his heavy black brows seemed to have pressed his i; eyes deeper into.-his head. He. bowed over the exfended hand and reverently carried it to his lips; "It is good of you to call, CaElellii'' "It is grajiious of you to rfeeeive me, madmna," • ' "We do not wholly forget," she fsaid. "It was that I feared, now yoii have become an jEnglish lady of titles though nothing could add to the title you have 'already won." He spoke 'gravely with much deep fueling, sugirejjting that his Vmity had not" b|<)h' pampered of late. She waved him K) ! a seat. He bowed, and with as much digfiity as he could , much deep fee'ng., suggestng that M vanty bad not bee pampered of latti. Shfl waved hm to a Beat. He bowed, and wtkas much dgnty as He could cbmmatid, setlled '.his massive bulk.. "' '! .'' •;,' '" ; '- ' "Now tell me of yotirpglf," she said. It was like a'breath from the wings, the smell of .painted"canvas,! the blare of the to see him again. He. revived old associations in a imanner 'almost incredible. -•.'.-.', 1 There was not much to tell. Things h"»d gone but indifferently well of late. Her defection had been an incalculable loss to hira, and to the world. In vain Jhe had journeyed from city to city in search of her srecessor; with her going genius also vanished from the lyric stage. Something more also, which pecularly affected him personally, thouph of this he m"de no mentjrn. To himself be was still Castelli. He. would rise-again. "And you are coming back?" he said. "Laroche has been to see me." "Paris is on the of expectation. You have not again refused the offer?" ' j "Yes. It cannot be." S "The sacriuce is gre->t. almost too.great } to osk of any human being." "One fains much thro'-gn sacrifice." . But srich argument did hot appeal to i him. Had; be dared he would havc< named lit crass stupidity. To have fame, riches, honour, gfpry, in one's hands, and then wilfully ih let it slip through the Sneers —this wasi the crowning act of perversity. "It is a thousand pities," he said, "I bad hoped once more to have the honour of supporting you. We have won much fame together. iLaroche is anxious I should appear." ' "Ahi" Sho looked at the heavy figure., the thick neck, the common face, and contrasted this garlic-eating peasant with her j own clean-cut, straight-limbed Ulysses. I Now, if only he were a singer and artist? J Castelli, _ seeing the sudden glow in her j eyes, mistook its meaning, forgot for e, trior*ent the role he had adopted, and launched out in the old Style she remem- * bered so well and hated so intensely^ | " Paris waits for us," he said, " and i after Paris, the world! Madonna, it is an obligation we owe to society, a .duty to the gobd God .for his supreme gifts'." ! He was fast dissipating much kindness of memory. It was not alone his vanity that revolted her, but the gross and vulgar presence itself. And he had played the over to her! How had she, ot the public, ever tolerated such a hero I "It was kind of - you to and pee mej Castelli," she said, rising, thereby intimating tbat the visit was at an end. "Frankly, I am much tempted, but .there are other and different obligations now. I'will tell my husband that yoa called; ■ he will regret not having seen you." j "Yet should you change your mind you i will not forget that Castelli's services are I always yours to command." | "I shall not change my mind." | "Pardon me, but it is so like a sudden 'madness that I do net abandon all hope ] of a speedy recovery. Moreover, madonna, I I freely admit it would be a great he'p to me. It is so difficult to reopen a door that- has once been , closed, whether by one s own act or the machinations of fortune." j "But sorely to Castelli the door is always, open 7" ! "Tne age nas grown commercial; art is lat a discount. Moreover, one should not; i rest too long in retirement, The newer -generation, blatant, self-assertive, is always clamouring for recognition. Take this fellow Forli, of whom the Press is at; present printmg much nonsense. .It is: extraordinary how the public will applaud! , defects and make a fetish of incompetence." j "They are very ignorant, Caste'H." \ "Incredibly so. I saw him in Boheme. j He has neither voice nor music" "They say he is handsome." t) " A woman's reason—the ordinary fool- j • ish woman." Quickly he corrected himf self. "Yet lam not without hope that - pure art will assert itself once more and I sweep these charlatans, these insects of ''the * moment, , back to. their native ' obscurity." ' 5 " It is much to be desired," she ao- » mitted. Strange that she should tolerate 1 him, that she could almost laugh. With • the vanishing of personal annoyance he became a droll creature. His vanity no • longer caused offence; she almost pitied '. him. The Castelli of their last interview f was no more; had humbled prid* and played havoc with pretention. .."There is to be no change in you?" " I think not. The past is dead and • gone. Castelli; presently I shall be leaving I for England." 1 "It is incredible to me that you should 1 relinquish so much, you who have but to ; li.it up your voice to conquer. The : memory of what you have been, what you may be again, does it stir no emotion?" 1 " Emotion is de"di in me." ; "If that were possible." "You do not think so?" "I am too bewildered to think. Yet ' art is a persuasive lover, thouph also something of a tyrant. Bet ter poverty, shame , even, in her aims than riches and peace jin those of another." He turned to go, then stopped. "I shall! wait, I shall be near, in case you call me." "I shall not call, Cnstelli." "Yet. should you need me?" " Should I need you, I will call." She turned laughing softly to herself as the door closed behind him. Was it likely s'i<- wo' H ever call to K 'm! Insufferable intolerable even in misfortune! And so the doors were shut on him. bolted, padlocked no doubt. Did he know now to whom he owed his greatness, or was nis large person entirely eaten up with a larcer vanitv?' Yet he stirred memory, made vivid recollection. There was a glory in those which cnyid not be denied, the loss of which robbed life of much of its sparkle. The thousand lights of the theatre, the tense atmosphere, the tumnl ous applause ! She swayed slightly as she cm'; »d the room a-d looked out into the cheerless, rain-sodden street. But her eves were globing, her pulse* quiverin*?. With elim fingers she beat » feverish tattoo on the "dripping pane. CHAPTER XVt. I THE RTFT WITHTW THE LUTE. I When Philip arrived heme his wife entirplv forgot to acquaint him with Castelli's visit, and even when she did remember there no longer (appeared a neressi'y to refer to it. Nothing but annoyance could come of such reference; he would resent the visit knowing it could only have one obiect. Moreover, there letters from England, business letters, ard ii« he looked up from a of they' s v f saw indecision and irritation in his ' glance. "Tell me," she said. He handed hei one of the letters. She puckered bfr brows over the typewritten sheet. "H? seems to think your presence very necessary/' '. ' !,/,, ,' : : .' : " Anparently." | '" Ati.d -oi)!" j S " r■:■: ni'iPt wnit."* ■.':': "- " yy'n:- sboU.'.d.'.'he?" " f s'! : i->n you will c"me?" saw his eves bri h/en, his whole face light up. -" Tn the srmmer,, of course,, as we deelded," sbe answered quickly, "But you— why not run over for a day, a week?" "And leave you here by yourself?" !.'.."Somfi mM you must leave mo by my* self, and we are now a long-married couple." " r et them wait," he stid,"But if 'o wait nrove harmful? I Would not have that hapuen." " Sol v '?'g harm'nl can nappen except to part from my wife." f .■..'' ''Yon are verv d"ar," said, slipping her arms Ground: his neckj " and a big > foolish fellow."

j "When I return to England," he i laughed, "it must be in triumph." | ■ Likei a, conquferer, with your poor ' captive iii chains?" " ' |. " Dear chaihg,? he said. - ; . .' . I.? Now much as he wished go home, i imperatively as incirhation aiid duty tolled ; be had never once thtfftght of going ,wjthoutheip. Therefore her ; iu|gestion cani? is of a' shock *to'him, though he wag not slow to explain it away by much ingenious aVgiiment: Of course it was extremely corisideraie of her riot to wish to hamper his mpvetherits, but man is such a perverse creature that there are moments when consideration apparently achieves anything but the desired end. • ' 'We 11 s*y no more about it," he said; " business mudt wait oh pleasure." She looked at him under her heavy lids. Once Or twice before he had unconsciously spoken in .this tone; Ulysses had begun to think of Ithaca, his Island home. This modern Ulysses was also an - islander. Rather curious this, in a way. , That night they went to the opera. Forli was singing, and Castelli's ungenerous reference to his'brother artist awakened in her a certain amount of curiosity. When she saw him, heard him sing, noted his technique, she understood poor Castelli's antagonism. He was all that ponderous follow , could' **ave buried .to *>e, tall, handsome, a superb artist with the fire and impetuosity of youth. *' He is good," she pronounced. " Better than 6iir bid friend Castelli ?" be asked with' an amused smile. She shrugged her eheulders. " It is a man, u/V Forli." There was a glow of enthusiasm in her eyes which it was impossible to miss. " I wonder what became of that other mass of vanity?" " Ofther ? Ah! " Brit her tone was signifieant. "Probably he has met the fate ibe deserves." " Let us hope Pot; the punishirieiit would be excessive." She regretted that Bhe had not told him of Marino's Visit, but it Was now too late. He might think things, wonder what there was to hide. There was nothing, really, but he might choose to imagine otherwise, and explanation would be tedious. Besides, ho knew nothing of tr% stirrings aroused by that visit. In at feast one direcitori they were not looking the same way. jiust before the curtain rose on the second act a diversion occurred in the box opposite. Michael Sarto appeared, accompanied by a rather handsome woman, whose advent caused many glasses to be turned in her direction. " Do you see who's opposite?" he whisfiered. XJolora had already seen, but she nnguidly raised her lorgnette; then her shoulders went up in an almost imperceptible shrug. Evidently she was not interested in Michael Sarto or his companion. Courtray thought of last time he had seen the Count. Things had panned out rather strangely since then. But Michael SaftO was looking hard at her, .so hard that his companion noticed it. " A friend of yours?" Bhe asked. % 1 " Once," he answered lightly. " Who is she?" " Do you not recognise her?" " She is somebody?" V Dolora Moliari/' " Ah! So that is the celebrated Circe?' She had heard something of the story; her interest redoubled. "And the man? He is very distinguished." " I dori*t know." She smiled. " Perhaps her husband, hein! It was very romantic." "Perhaps." After the second act Monsieur Laroche entered Dolora's bo:: and was introduced to Philip. " You approve of Forli ?" he asked her. " He is a Very remarkable artist. Please convey my compliments to him." " You will not meet him, madame?" " T t>>ink not at present." "He knows you are.in the house." " I thought he was singing to use," Philip interjected with a smile. "It is verv probable, momieur," Laroche admitted. 11 "And when is madame to charm us once more ?". "My wife has definitely retired." " It is a pity. With Forli as Ulysses— men dieu, it would.-create., a furore. It would carry lis through the season." , Unperceived by Phihp, Dolora gave the man a quick look, and presently he kissed her' hand and retired. "All eyes were ipcussed.on their box. Most people knew Laroche, and when • the whisper went round that the beautiful golden-haired woman was the famous, or infamous, certainly notorious, Dolora Moliari, nicknamed Circe, interest' grew until ; it became almost excitement. It reminded Philip Courtray of Monte Carlo, with its | pushing, straining crowds, and that night when she first appeared at Sarto's ball in Nice. Sarto! He looked across the theatre and the' men's eyes seemed to meet. He had been jealous of the Italian and his millions, absurdly jealous, no doubt, but such men are not lightly to be considered when a woman stands between. Yet those millions had not saved him from ignominious expulsion at the hands of her servants.. Courtray had no longer cause for jealousy. At the end of the second act they left the theatre. It is always a sign of superior intelligence, or of social importance, to leave before the end of an entertainment. Probably Dolora knew this; we are imita r tive creatures, even the best of us. As she passed through the foyer, on her husband's arm, she came face, to face with Sarto and his friend. The count's dark eye 3 met hers, a.lightning flash; then he bowed in his most elaborate manner. But she looked through him, or rather over him, and swept on. His face grew a shade paler, his lips twitched. " Mv friend, you are trembling," said the lady. '-.'■'. "Tush!" he answered, dropping her &rin as though he bad been stung. Philip scanned Dolora closely, but met no answering look. For her Michael Sarto had ceased to exist. It was a long time ago, that incident at the villa; much of importance had happened since them ■" Money makes for ipsolence," he suggested. . ..'■.. " You refer to Sarto?" She pronounced the rame as though it were that of a stranger. " It is still new to him, a spWdid toy, which he compares with Aladdin's lamp," Vet much came out of the incident of that night; much laore than either anticipated at the moment. He was_ convinced that something weighed heavi'y on her mind; she was distrait, fatigued, bored. At one tim-j her lassitude filled him with sudden hope, a hope which had no foundation in fact. Why need they stay on in Paris; if she would not go to England there were othir places. It was on such occasions that she betrayed_ irritation in a marked degree; a spark might have produced an explosion. He was beginning to realise the irresponsibility of the artistic temperament. Hitherto it had been a mere phase to him meaning little or nothing; now it was beginning to assume threatening proportions. Had he been more versed in the ways of neurotics he might have paid more deference to nerves; for though: the normally healthy person has little sympathy with them they are a very real and terrible infliction. With the vanishing glamour of their wild romance cold and pitiless reality began gradually to assert itself. It had been something like a dream, that curiously splendid adventure, but it is the nature of dreams to vanish. They spoke no more of magic islands hidden in turquoise seas. Circe had ijecome Lady Courtray, and the dream Ulysses her husband Philip. Romance had cheated thern, had led them to a desert instead of to their fabulous green island. He saw the longing in her eyes, guessed the aching of her heart, and pent many anxious hours in unprofitable conjecture. This singing bird had been taken from her native groves, caged, and was now beattig her delicate wings against the gilded burs. Nor did he improve the condition of things by attempting to alleviate it. It was just that he did not understand hei". He knew that a time :vould come when settled sobriety, a recognition of the immutable laws of life, must triumph over poetic dreamings, though she apparently refused to recognise such. To her change was pecessary, but not that sort of change. Was "it the glare of the footlights that still beckoned her onward j did she miss the excitement of the scene, the applause of the people ? He told nimseli that all this was life alluring, very wonderful, charged with fascination. Undoubtedly she was a great artist. Wher-' i ever they had gone her fame had preceded ier; homage, sincere, enthusiastic, met

her bit every haii<i. laißwe past days she had sung 4 to him by th® hour; had told him she rieyer wished for other; audience; and he had listened enraptured with the beauty Of her. voice. He regretted how that he had never heard her sing in the theatre; it might have given him a keener insight into her mind, a better Understanding of her psychology. For he knew .only too surely.. the little rift was widening between them. He noticed how her fondness for.the theatre returned,' how eagerly she plunged into any little excitement which was likely, to fill the vacant hours. And once ' it Ead been so different. He remembered how she had declared that the th«?treand its associations were a thing of the past; how over and over again shepad refund to enter a playhouse. Meals taken together, excursions to those glorious moonlight niffhts on the ' take of Lusario. Those glorious merits! How dear life was then: how delicious every moment. The lifjH in her eves, the to"ch of her h-nd, her sweet voice ' starward. It was in scch a manner thev had pictured themselves floating over the Turquoise Sea to that Dream | Island of hers: it was in such fashion thev ? forgot for a space their human origin and Und. ... It was about a week after that visit to the opera when she had heard Forli sing, a week of tense, suppressed excitement for both, that a further urgent letter was received by Conrtray from his • solicitors in London begging his immedii ate return to England. It seemed that his ..agent was unable to account for certain ' expenditures in connection with the • : estate, which promised rather sensational develonments. Philip showed her the leti ter. After a careful perusal she turned i on him a look of inquiry. ■ "Why not do as he desires.?",she asked. >\ "It looks rather serious." " must go, of course." "But you?" ;■ ' " T'm afraid th"t is rot possible—now. i "Why now, in particular?" " This morning I si<rned a contract with Laroche to give three performances of , ' Circe.' "..,.-. .-..".•':■..'. "Dolora!" There was shame in his i tone as .well as reproach. " Oh, my dear, the creature was so im- ' portnnate there was no ether way of get- ! t ; ng rid of him. You are not angry? J Think, ]*ust three performan-es—unless the ' public insist on more—and then we will 1 pack rif) our traps and scurry away for dear life." " You knew I did not wish this?" 1 ■ " I feared; but after givine the matter ' my serious consideration I thought your • objection a little unreasonable. After all, ; I shall only sing three times." " That is three times too many." ' " For you, perhaps, but not,, for the ' public." "You promised." ; " And when I promised I meant it. I 1 did not know the call would prove so strong, or so insistent." " This is a matter of honour between us." "Ah, yes, that is so; but we do not risk our honour, unless I try to break with Laroche." "The pact with Laroche is the more ' important ?" ; " Ah, no, mon ami; how could you f think such a thing?" " You must cancel this contract, Dolora." " Impossible! He wonld not listen." "I will see him in the morning; we will buy him off." j " No," you must not see him. Go to i Endand; you know how urgently your presence is needed there When I.hrve fulfilled this' contract I will join you." 3 " You want me to go?" " How can you ask swh a question? I want you very much to stay. You have never seen me in the part; you will be very tjroud of me Ulysses. They say I ' am rather wonderful." - " This is mere vanity." She frowned. "No, say rather love of s art. But you would not understand." They measured \ each other with looks. His square jaw g rew squarer, harder: her " little chin stuck Out in defiant fashion. fc The turquoise eyes were rapidly darkening • clouds were passing over'the sea..- " 5 "It cannot be, Dolora." . v; ~ \ , "Why not?" ; - 7 ~: "" .-■'" 2 " I do not wish it." ; i " Tliis is tone," she,said; ".I t do not understand it." 1 " This contract must be cancelled." - .! " Must!" • i, " I insist." '... I " But it is strange you do not know 1 me better." J " You will do this for mo ?" *. "I h-ve done much for you; do not 1 let me think I have done too much." 5 " Ins'st was the wrong word;'l offer a *, thousand apologies.' 5 " One would 1 was about to commit some awful crime, to bring irreparable discredit on your name. You j. appear to forgot that I shall add to it a great distinction.". "Yet you act without my knowledge, -in secrecy." . ' . "I see" what you mean; but you left „ me no other alternative." ' "It's not the road to happiness, Dol- ' ora." [ "7«t lam almost inclined to think so, | or T should not take it." "You are determined ?" j "I should like you to approve." "I cannot.' | "That is unfortunate:" "There is a reason for this change in ' you; what is it ?" , "Perhaps you would not care to know." " You are my wife, remember." • "Perhaps the reason is there." "That's a bitter thing to say." "You misunderstand; I didn't mean it that way. N Help me a little; don't look at me so reproachfully. I think I must ' alwavs have been artist first." 1 "While I wanted a wife first—a 1 mother." Her shoulders contracted. " You ask too much, my dear." "It does not seem so." .. "To you; but to me it may mean asking life itself." k Suddenly she turned and their eyes i met. In hers was a strange, compelling look, the look of one who wishes to sea , clearly and to make things clear. "We must be careful, Philip, and try I our hardest to understand each other, . Think me a creature of change if you will, but. not one who forgets. To be , quite frank with you, I did not know how dear to me the old life was, or how much it was a part of me. I believed I could I renounce it without a pang, and, believing suoh, I did renounce it. Perhaps it might have been different if other things had happened. Eemember, I am still , a young woman, and a long and brilliant futuro lies before me. It cannot bring ' discredit to you or to me; on the con- ' trary, it is likely to be the cause of much distinction. For a long time now I have heard the call but I would not listen to it. I shut my ears tight, turned aside from the most alluring prospect. Yet the call grew louder and louder, more insistent, until I could not close my ears against it. Do you not understand; have you never heard the call of wild places, you who are a nomad by nature, whose blood cries out for adventure ?" "I have,resisted it," he said. "Because you are a man and strong; lam only a woman and weak. Yft ', too, am a nomad with the adventurer's restless blood. I wish you could understand this: I want you to." "Yet to go behind my back—" "Regrettable, I admit, yet not very terrible." "I shall lose you," he said; "you will go out of my life. There wili be no place for me in that world which allures you." "If I am happy?" . "It matters nothing that I am miserable ?" "Would it make you miserable to see your wife placed high above all other women, the world at her feet ?" * "I have no wish to see the world at her feet. I would rather see her nursing my child." Up went her delicate shoulder? again in a slight, contemptuous shr-". ' "Do not be impossible. Surely you realise that I am not domesticated ? Yon knew me as your woman of dreams, as one who looked, out across the turquoise seas and built strange lands under, strange stars. You found'no-fault with me then, for you saw with my eyes. I thought you understood." '.'. \ .....•■...-. --;■-< - (To be continued on Saturday next.)