He stooped and kissed her gratefully. "Thank you for that, my sweet Ellaline. And now I think I can safely confess that I am Addiper."
She gave a little shriek. Her face turned white. "Addiper!" she breathed.
"Yes, dearest, it is my nom de guerre. I am Addiper, the writer you admire so much, the man with whose school, you were pleased to say, the future lies."
"Addiper!" she said again. "Impossible! why you said you did not get your living by art of any kind."
"Of course I don't!" he said. "Books like mine—all style, no sentiment, morals or theology—never pay. Fortunately I am able to publish them at my own expense. I write only for writers. That is why you like me. Successful writers are those who write for readers, just as popular painters are those who paint for spectators."
The poor little face was ashen gray now. The surprise was too much for the fragile little beauty. "Then you really are Addiper!" she said in low, slow tones.
"Yes, dearest," he said not without a touch of pride. "I am Addiper—and in you, love, I have found a fresh fount of inspiration. You shall be the guiding star of my work, my rare Ellaline, my pearl, my beryl. Ah, this is a great turning-point in my life. To-day I enter into my third manner."
"This is not one of your teasing jokes?" she said appealingly, her piteous eyes looking up into his.
"No, my Ellaline. Do you think I would hoax you thus—to dash you to earth again?"
"Then," she said slowly and painfully, "then I can never marry you. We must say 'good-bye.'"