True, the world was at her feet now, just as much as it would ever be
at his, but with what a difference? For her, with the work and stain
of the knowledge of much evil, and little good. For him, at present,
with aal the glorious freshness of the morning.

She glanced back into the dim room, and among the shadows she saw him
standing there again, towering up upon her hearthrug, before her
hearth, with that youthful, frank assurance that was so attractive. Of
a truth he was unspoilt yet, unspoilt and splendid as the dawn of the
morning - but for how long?

What would they make of him presently, the women of the world, who must
needs worship such a man, and strew their charms before him. How was
he to keep his freshness, when temptation hemmed him in on every side?

She felt a sudden yearning as of hungry mother-love towards him. If he
had been her son, her very own son, how she would have fought the whole
world to help him keep his armour bright, and his colours flying high.

And instead?...

The wave of hungry mother-love was followed by one as of swift and
angry protest. Who had ever cared whether she kept her armour bright
and her colours flying high? Had not life itself mocked at her early
aspirations, and trampled jeeringly on her untutored, unformed high
desires? What chance had she ever had, long as she might, to keep the
morning freshness?

Well, what of it? She had sought and striven for fame, and fame had
come; she was a poor creature if she could not look life in the face