fruitlessly!--had she revolted against that pronouncement of his! She
had declared that such was not love, and he--he had warned her against
loving too well, giving too freely. With cruel distinctness it all came
back to her. She felt again those hot kisses upon brow and lips and
throat. Though he had warned her against giving, he had not been slow to
take. He had revelled in the abandonment of that first free love of
hers. He had drained her of all that she held most precious that he
might drink his fill. And all for what? Again she burned from head to
foot, and, groaning, hid her face. All for the making of a picture that
should bring him world-wide fame! His love for her had been naught but
small change flung liberally enough that he might purchase therewith the
desire of his artist's soul. It had been just a means to an end. No more
than that! No more than that!

* * *

Time passed, but she knew naught of its passing. She was in a place of
bitterness very far removed from the ordinary things of life. She shed
no tears. The misery and shame that burned her soul were beyond all
expression or alleviation. She could have laughed over the irony of it
all more easily than she could have wept.

That she--the proud and dainty, for whom no one had been good
enough--should have fallen thus easily to the careless attraction of a
man to whom she was nothing, nothing but a piece of prettiness to be
bought as cheaply as possible and treasured not at all. Some whim of
inspiration had moved him. He had obeyed his Muse. And he had been
ready--he had been ready--even to offer her life in sacrifice to his
idol. She did not count with him in the smallest degree. He had never
cared--he had never cared!