He had fully justified her belief in him; but he well knew how much of
his success he owed to her. Their love had taught him lessons, given him
ideals which had not been his before.

But there was nothing selfish or sentimental about Helen. When the most
sacred of their experiences crept into his work, and stood revealed for
all the world to read; when his art transferred to hard type, and to the
black and white of print and paper, the magic thrill of Helen's
tenderness, so that all her friends could buy it for four shillings and
sixpence, and discuss it at leisure, Helen never winced. She only smiled
and said: "The world has a right to every beautiful thing we can give
it. I have always felt indignant with the people who collect musical
instruments which they have no intention of playing; who lock up Strads
and Cremonas in glass cases, thus holding them dumb for ever to the
eager ear of a listening world."

Only once, when he had put into a story a tender little name by which
Helen sometimes called him, unable to resist giving his hero the bliss
he, on those rare occasions, himself felt--he found a firm pencil line
drawn through the words, when he looked at the proof sheets, after Helen
had returned them to his desk. She never mentioned the matter to him,
nor did he speak of it to her; but his hero had to forego that
particular thrill, and it was a long time before Ronald himself heard
again the words Helen had deleted.

He heard them now, however--murmured very softly; and he caught her to
him with sudden passion, kissing her hair.

Yet he meant to go. _In hoc vince_. He must conquer his very need of