two weeks. He had known nothing of her movements, save that her
splendid talents had saved a play from utter ruin. Her declaration was
like a thunderbolt. "Explain!"

"Well, I am tired, Dick; I am tired." She sat down, and her gaze roved
about the familiar room with a veiled affection for everything she
saw. "The world is empty. I have begun to hate the fools who applaud
me. I hate the evil smells which hang about the theater. I hate the
overture and the man with the drums," whimsically.

"What's he done to you?"

"Nothing, only he makes more noise than the others. I'm tired. It is
not a definite reason; but a woman is never obliged to be definite."

"No; I never could understand you, even when you took the trouble to
explain things."

"Yes, I know." She drew off her gloves and rubbed her fingers, which
were damp and cold.

"But, surely, this is only a whim. You can't seriously mean to give up
the stage when the whole world is watching you!"

She did not answer him, but continued to rub her fingers. She wore
several rings, among which was a brilliant of unusual luster.
Warrington, however, had eyes for nothing but her face. For the past
six months he had noted a subtle change in her, a growing reserve, a
thoughtfulness that was slowly veiling or subduing her natural gaiety.
She now evaded him when he suggested one of their old romps in queer