The young man considered a few minutes what he should answer. As she had asked to drink the chalice she should do so to the dregs.
"You have two courses open to you, for I would not advise you to take a third and return to your husband. If I were a woman I would prefer to lie stretched out at the morgue than be the joint possessor of that man's ill-gotten wealth. We therefore have only the two courses to consider. Either you continue on the stage as before, take the bought applause and the flowers paid for by your noble patrons, or return from whence you came, and be content to shove wheelbarrows for the rest of your life."
Eveline rose from her seat, drew her wrap round her shoulders, and, with a low, constrained voice, murmured:
"Thank you." Then she silently left the room.
Tears came into Arpad's eyes. But why had she come here? Why had she disturbed him when he was happy painting? The moment she had closed the door he returned to the table and took from the drawer his flower, to see if it had sustained any injury. It was in one sense a flower—a fair child with blue eyes!
The door opened again; the picture was hastily concealed. No one, however, came in. Arpad's mother spoke through the half-opened door.
"Arpad, my son, who was that beautiful lady who was here just now? A princess, was she not?"
"She was a poor woman who came to beg from me."
"H'm! Surprising! What extraordinary beggars there are in this city—beggars dressed in silk, with a Persian shawl for a wrap. Did you give her anything, Arpad?"
"Mother, I had nothing to give her."