"Little one, I love you so——" His voice was soft and caressing; but her love made her heroic. She raised her head. "I am sure," she said steadily.
The girl sat in a corner of the warm, gorgeous drawing-room, and wished vaguely that people would not nod and stare at her so energetically. She was used to it now, and tired of it.
She had never liked it, but fame brings notoriety in its train, and notoriety brings nods and whispers and stares.
She was dressed beautifully. She had always liked pretty things, and now she could have as many as she wanted.
The man stood over in a doorway and watched her with cynical eyes.
He had not seen her for five years, and as he stood there another man lounged up and spoke to him.
"Looking at la belle Philomèle?" he said; "she's quite the rage, you know. Ever heard her sing? You're only just back from the wilds, aren't you? Oh, well, of course you'll go to St. James's Hall to-morrow? She's going to sing, you know. Her voice is splendid. I never go to hear her myself—makes me feel I'm a miserable sinner somehow—does, 'pon my word. I've heard her twice, and then I dropped it. Don't like feeling small, you know."
He lounged away again, and the man with the cynical eyes still watched her.