"And you actually defied his opinion—you were careless of what he would wish!" exclaimed Violet Earle, surprised and incredulous.
There was a moment's silence. The white hands that were clasped together in her lap were lifted to hide her face; then she dropped them again, and answered, with quivering lips:
"No, Miss Earle, do not say that. I was never either careless or defiant of Ronald Valchester's opinion. I loved him too well always—always—to do him that despite. But the old life was unendurable. It was madness to remember all I had lost. I threw myself feverishly into a public career because it promised—forgetfulness."
"And have you found it?" Violet asked her, quickly.
"No."
The simple word dropped mournfully from the quivering lips.
Violet looked searchingly at the sad young face that looked so marble-white with the dark fringes of the long, curling lashes resting against the cheeks. A mental vision of that face three years ago came over her. She remembered it sun-tanned, rose-flushed, happy. She remembered the faded print dress, the shabby boots, the worn poetry volume. In the place of that simple girl here was a beautiful, sad-eyed woman, clothed with purple and fine linen—a woman who but a little while ago had told Walter Earle that life had given her fame, wealth, admiration—everything except happiness.
Violet studied the beautiful face curiously a moment, then inquired, abruptly:
"Lina, did you know when you came here that Ronald Valchester was the author of the opera you have brought out with such signal success?"
"No, I did not know it until yesterday," she replied.