"All the same I shall have to study for a long time yet, Baroni tells me,"—smiling a little.
"In that sense a great artiste is always a student. 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.
She waited in silence.