'Why will you always go back to that question?' he asked, and his tone

showed how much he resented it. 'You cannot unlive your life. Don't

make me say more than that, for you don't know how it hurts to say that

much. Indeed you don't!' He went to the closed window and looked out, turning away from her. She

stretched out her hand and pulled at his coat timidly, as a dog pulls

his master's clothes to attract his attention. He turned his head a

little.

'I've tried to live differently, Tom,' she said. 'Of late years I've

tried.' Her voice was low and unsteady.

'I know it,' he said just above a whisper, and he turned to the

window-pane again.

'Can't you forgive me, Tom?' she asked pitifully. 'Won't you take some

of the money--only what I made by singing?' He shook his head without looking round, for it would have hurt him to

see her eyes just then.

'I have enough, mother,' he answered. 'I make as much as I need.' 'You will need much more when you marry.' 'I shall never marry.' 'You will marry little Miss Donne,' said Madame Bonanni, after a

moment's pause.

Lushington turned sharply now, and leaned back against the glass.

'No,' he answered, with sudden hardness, 'I can't ask Miss Donne to be

my wife. No man in my position could have the right. You understand

what I mean, and heaven knows I don't wish to pain you, mother--I'd

give anything not to! Why do you talk of these things?' 'Because I feel that you're unhappy, Tom, and I know that I am--and

there must be some way out of it. After all, my dear--now don't be

angry!--Miss Donne is a good girl--she's all that I wish I had

been--but after all, she's going to be an opera-singer. You are the son

of an artist and I don't see why any artist should not marry you. The

public believes we are all bad, whether we are or not.' 'I'm not thinking of the public,' Lushington answered. 'I don't care a

straw what the world says. If I had been offered my choice I would not

have changed my name at all.' 'But then, my dear, what in the world are you thinking of?' asked the

prima donna, evidently surprised by what he said. 'If the girl loves

you, do you suppose she will care what I've done?' 'But I care!' cried Lushington with sudden vehemence. 'I care, for her

sake!' Madame Bonanni's hand had disappeared within the furs again, after she

had ascertained that the two tears were not going to run down her

cheeks. Her large face wore the expression of a coloured sphinx, and

there was something Egyptian about the immobility of her eyes and her

painted eyebrows. No one could have guessed from her look whether she

were going to cry or laugh the next time she spoke. Lushington walked

up and down the room without glancing at her.




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