The candles in sconces furnished the only other illumination. Elise,
moving about the shadowy room, seemed to draw light to herself. She wore
a flame-colored velvet frock and her curly hair was tucked into a golden
net. I think that she had planned the medieval effect deliberately, and
it was a great success. As she flitted about like a brilliant bird, our
eyes followed her. My eyes, indeed, drank of her, like new wine. I have
always loved color, and my life has been drab.

I spoke of her frock when she showed me my room.

"Oh, do you like it?" she asked. "Jimmie hates to see me in dark things.
He says that when I wear this he can see his heroine."

"Is she like you?"

"Not a bit. She is rather untamed. Jimmie does her very well. She
positively gallops through the play."

"And do you never gallop?"

She shook her head. "It's a good thing that I don't. If I did, Jimmie
would never write. He says that I keep his nose to the grindstone. It
isn't that, but I love him too much to let him squander his talent. If
he had no talent, I should love him without it. But, having it, I must
hold him up to it."

She was very sure of herself, very sure of the rightness of her attitude
toward Jimmie. "I know how great he is," she said, as we went down, "and
other people don't. So I've got to prove it."