``Not that tone,'' he groaned. ``Reproach me! Revile me! Be
harsh, scornful--but not those tender accents.''

He felt her hand become cold and he saw terror in her eyes.
``Forgive me,'' she said humbly. ``I don't know what to say or
do. I--you look so strange. It makes me feel all queer inside.
Won't you tell me, please?''

He noted with artistic satisfaction that the band was playing
passionate love-music with sobs and sad ecstasies of farewell
embraces in it. He kissed her, then drew back. ``No,'' he
groaned. ``Those lips are not for me, accursed that I am.''

She was no longer looking at him, but sat gazing straight ahead,
her shoulders bent as if she were crouching to receive a blow.
He began in a low voice, and, as he spoke, it rose or fell as his
words and the distant music prompted him. ``Mine has been a
luckless life,'' he said. ``I have been a football of destiny,
kicked and flung about, hither and yon. Again and again I have
thought in my despair to lay me down and die. But something has
urged me on, on, on. And at last I met you.''

He paused and groaned--partly because it was the proper place,
partly with vexation. Here was a speech to thrill, yet she sat
there inert, her face a stupid blank. He was not even sure that
she had heard.

``Are you listening?'' he asked in a stern aside, a curious
mingling of the actor and the stage manager.