"Not I, indeed! I am not without my own ambitious also. I must go back to England, to France, to Germany, to Italy. And so must you, Oscar--you must, if you are to be true to your talents and to yourself and to the great future----"
"I know it, Helga, I feel it, and if I could write even one song that would stir the souls of millions it would be better than making a fortune or passing an act of parliament. But when a man has given hostages to fortune, and they are dragging him down--with silken threads, perhaps--but still down, down, down----"
He was speaking out of a dry and husky throat, but she answered softly and sweetly, "Are things so absolutely irretrievable, Oscar?"
"Absolutely, Helga, absolutely; and henceforth and all my life long I must learn to go without your comradeship----"
"And what must I do?"
The compulsion of passion was driving him on, but he was struggling to hold back. "Helga," he cried, "do you know what is the deadliest thing in life? It is Love. The painters paint Love as a harmless little Cupid, with a handkerchief about his eyes and a tiny bow and arrow in his hands. But Love is a great, blind, blundering monster with a two-edged sword, dealing destruction on every side."
His words were as nothing, but his quivering voice sang like music in Helga's ears, and she said, "Is it Love or man that does that, Oscar--man with the false sense of right and wrong, his foolish ideals of honor?"
"God knows! Perhaps if I could have thought so a year ago, before I added injury to injury and brought unhappiness on others--but now--now----"
A sensation of triumph came to her and she said, "Isn't it cowardly to talk like that, Oscar?"
"I am a coward, Helga," he answered, trembling from head to foot; "to you I can speak the truth--I am a coward, a moral coward, and I can not face the certainty----"