He leaned a little further from the window, and gazed into the court at a dizzy depth below. He had cut himself adrift from the peace which might have been his. He would never know again the joys of his earlier life. It was for this that he had fought so many battles, clung so tightly to one ideal—for Louise, who could show herself to any one who cared to pay his shilling or his half-guinea, glorying in her dishonor; worse than glorying in it—finding some subtle humor in the little gesture with which she had pointed, unashamed, to her lover.
John bent a little lower from the window. A sudden dizziness seemed to have come over him. Then he was forced to turn around. His door had been quickly opened and shut. It was Sophy who was crossing toward him, the rain streaming from her ruined opera-cloak.
"John!" she cried. "Oh, John!"
She led him back to his chair and knelt by his side. She held his hands tightly.
"You mustn't feel like this," she sobbed; "you mustn't, John, really! You don't understand. It's all a play. Louise wouldn't really do anything like that!"
He shivered. Nevertheless, he clutched her hands and drew her closer to him.
"Do, please, listen to me," she begged. "It's all over. Louise is herself again—Louise Maurel. The Marquis de Guy never lived except upon these boards. It is simply a wonderful creation. Any one of the great actresses would play that part and glory in it—the very greatest, John. Oh, it's so hard to make you understand! Louise is waiting for you. They are all waiting at the supper-party. You are expected. You must go and tell her that you think it was wonderful!"
He rose slowly to his feet.
"Wonderful!" he muttered. "Wonderful! But, child, it is damnable!"
"Don't be foolish," she answered. "Go and put on another dress coat, tie your tie again, and brush your hair. I have come to take you to the supper."