"Of a friend," he muttered. A gust of fear had made the "friend" an
iceberg. But her clasp tightened.

"I am glad," she said. "Ah, you have been good to me, monsieur! And if,
in spite of everything, I am sometimes sad, I am, at least, never
ungrateful."

"You are sad?" faltered the vacillating victim. "Why?"

Her bosom rose. "Is success all a woman wants?"

"Ah!" exclaimed de Fronsac, in an impassioned quaver, "is that not
life? To all of us there is the unattainable--to you, to me!"

"To you?" she murmured. Her eyes were transcendental. Admiration and
alarm tore him in halves.

"In truth," he gasped, "I am the most miserable of men! What is genius,
what is fame, when one is lonely and unloved?"

She moved impetuously closer--so close that the perfume of her hair
intoxicated him. His heart seemed to knock against his ribs, and he
felt the perspiration burst out on his brow. For an instant he
hesitated--on the edge of his grave, he thought. Then he dropped her
hand, and backed from her. "But why should I bore you with my griefs?"
he stammered. "Au revoir, mademoiselle!"

Outside the stage door he gave thanks for his self-control. Also, pale
with the crisis, he registered an oath not to approach her again.