Courteney watched her, for he could not turn away.

Almost under her breath, she went on: "A few days later her mother began
to suffer--oh, terribly. There was no money, no one to help. She went
again and danced at the saloon entrance. He--the man--was there. She
danced till she was tired out. And then--and then--she was hungry,
too--she fainted." The low voice sank a little lower. "When she came to
herself, she was in his keeping. He was very kind to her--too kind. Her
strength was gone, and--and temptation is harder to resist when one is
physically weak too. When she went back to her mother she had
accepted--his--offer. From that night her fortune was made."

Two tears gathered on the dark lashes and hung there till she put up a
quick hand and brushed them away.

The man's face was curiously softened; he looked as if he desired to dry
those tears himself.

Without looking up she continued. "The mother died--very, very soon.
Life is like that. Often one pays--in vain. There is no bargaining with
death. But at least she never knew. That was Rosa Mundi's only comfort.
There was no turning back for her then. And she was so desolate, so
lonely, nothing seemed to matter.

"She went from triumph to triumph. She carried all before her. He took
her to New York, and she conquered there. They strewed her path with
roses. They almost worshipped her. She tried to think she was happy, but
she was not--even then. They came around her in crowds. They made love
to her. She was young, and their homage was like a coloured ball to
her. She tossed it to and fro, and played with it. But she made game of