But what I meant
by saying that a mere writer has no place in a prima donna's life was
that, whereas my work is more or less a hobby, and my little bit of
'fame'--as you choose to call it--merely a side-issue, _your_ work will
be your whole existence. You will live for it entirely--your art and
the world's recognition of it will absorb every thought. There will be
no room in your life for the friendship of insignificant people like
myself."
"Try me," she said demurely.
He swung round on her with a sudden fierceness.
"By God!" he exclaimed. "If you knew the temptation . . . if you knew
how I long to take what you offer!"
She smiled at him--a slow, sweet smile that curved her mouth, and
climbing to her eyes lit them with a soft radiance.
"Well?" she said quietly. "Why not?"
He got up abruptly, and going to the window, stood with his back to
her, looking out into the night.
She watched him consideringly. Intuitively she knew that he was
fighting a battle with himself. She had always been conscious of the
element of friction in their intercourse. This evening it had suddenly
crystallised into a definite realisation that although this man desired
to be her friend--Truth, at the bottom of her mental well, whispered
perhaps even something more--he was caught back, restrained by the
knowledge of some obstacle, some hindrance to their friendship of which
she was entirely ignorant.
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