"You promised, Jack. And see, I am all ready. I won't stay at home!"

"Is it my fault, Diane? Can I help it that Von Whele has left Paris?"

"You can help it that you have no money. Oh, I wish I had not given up
the stage!"

Diane stamped one little foot, and angry tears rose to her eyes. She
tore off her hat and jacket and dashed them to the floor. She threw
herself on a couch.

"You deceived me!" she cried bitterly. "You promised that I should want
for nothing--that you would always have plenty of money. And this is how
you keep your word! You are selfish, unkind! I hate you!"

She continued to reproach him, growing more and more angry. Words of
the lowest Parisian argot, picked up from her companions of the Folies
Bergere, fell from her lovely lips--words that brought a blush of shame,
a look of horror and repulsion, to Jack's face.

"Diane," he said pleadingly, as he bent over the couch.

Her mood changed as quickly, and she suddenly clasped her arms around
his neck.

"Forgive me, Jack," she whispered.

"I always do," he sighed.

"And, please, please get some money--now."