"And now," she said, when they were snugly seated upon the cushioned windowseat, "I must tell you how proud mother and I have been of you. Oh, it was so good to read all these praises of you!"
He smiled. "It came," he said, "because I did not care whether it came or not. I was indifferent; and so success came."
"Indifferent? Why, Dick? With such power it is not right to be indifferent. Why—"
"Why should I be anything other than indifferent? For myself? No. I despise myself too much. I consider myself only a means toward amusement. And if not for myself, for whom?"
She was playing with the leaves of a palm that hung down over her shoulder.
"No," he went on, "there was never any motive in it all. It was all sheer play. There was the joy, the delirium of creation; that was a sufficient sensation; beyond that—nothing! It might be different if...." He stopped with the word half spoken.
"If what?"
He looked at her swiftly. There was in her face only earnest curiosity and sympathy. "If," he continued, "if there were—someone else. Oh, Dorothy, dear, don't you see? Don't you realize that it is you, you for whom I would work—yes, work and live? Dorothy, tell me that you are not altogether indifferent. Once—long ago—you said you might care for me. Then we were boy and girl; now we are man and woman. Then again you told me to forget you. I tried. I tried—all ways into forgetfulness. I tried to laugh away you, and all the past; to live only for the essence of the moment. And now, Dorothy, why don't you speak?"
She gently disengaged her hand from his. Her face was white, and she could only shake her head.
"But why?" he moaned, fiercely, "why? Can you not love me a little?"