"But that is because you own your life."
"Own my life? Of course I do. That is just what every soul must own."
"Not if—if she cares for some one more than her life."
"Oh-e! oh-e! That is the secret! And he don't like it? The heathen! I wish he had seen you just now!"
"He did. He was standing in the box close by you. I saw his face, for the first time in months. He was leaning forward; his eyes met mine. They were full of reproach—contempt, perhaps. I could not tell, for the house swam round, the lights seemed leaping toward me. Then I felt as if the noise were putting them out, for everything grew dark."
"And you fainted dead away, poor dear! I know how to pity you. Not that I have had trouble yet; but it is sure to come, and then, of course, you will be sorry for me."
"I shall, indeed."
"Just as I am sorry for you now. But who is the man?"
"I hardly think I know. He gave me an Italian name, but I feel sure it was not his."
"That accounts for his antipathy to the stage. If he had really been an Italian, your singing would have entranced him. It was heavenly; but an Englishman—. Well, well, we must see!"