"Ah!" she exclaimed, "I do." And she looked up.

Her lovely eyes had a suspicion of moisture. The blood rushed through

my head, and I could feel its turbulent throb-throb across the temples

and at my heart.

I was in heaven, and residence in heaven makes one bold.

"You really would like me to stay?" I almost whispered, in a tone that

was equivalent to a declaration.

Her eyes met mine in silence for a few instants, and then she said,

with a touch of melancholy: "In all my life I've only had two friends--I mean since my mother's

death; and you are the third."

"Is that all?"

"You don't know what a life like mine is," she went on, with feeling.

"I'm only a prima donna, you know. People think that because I can

make as much money in three hours as a milliner's girl can make in

three years, and because I'm always in the midst of luxuries, and

because I have whims and caprices, and because my face has certain

curves in it, and because men get jealous with each other about

kissing my hand, that therefore I've got all I want."

"Certain curves!" I burst out. "Why, you're the most beautiful

creature I ever saw!"

"There!" she cried. "That's just how they all talk. I do hate it."

"Do you?" I said. "Then I'll never call you beautiful again. But I

should have thought you were fairly happy."

"I'm happy when I'm singing well," she answered--"only then. I like

singing. I like to see an audience moved. I must sing. Singing is my

life. But do you know what that means? That means that I belong to the

public, and so I can't hide myself. That means that I am

always--always--surrounded by 'admirers.'"

"Well?"

"Well, I don't like them. I don't like any of them. And I don't like

them in the mass. Why can't I just sing, and then belong simply to

myself? They are for ever there, my 'admirers.' Men of wealth, men of

talent, men of adventure, men of wits--all devoted, all respectful,

all ready to marry me. Some honorable, according to the accepted

standard, others probably dishonorable. And there is not one but whose

real desire is to own me. I know them. Love! In my world, peculiar in

that world in which I live, there is no such thing as love--only a

showy imitation. Yes, they think they love me. 'When we are married

you will not sing any more; you will be mine then,' says one. That is

what he imagines is love. And others would have me for the gold-mine

that is in my throat. I can read their greed in their faces."

Her candid bitterness surprised as much as it charmed me.




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