“No such luck!” thought Alan Massey bitterly.  The thought brought a flash of venom into his eyes which Tony unluckily caught.

“Alan!  Why do you hate Dick so?  He never did you any harm.”

Tony Holiday did not know what outrageous injury Dick had done his cousin, Alan Massey.

Alan was already suavely master of himself, the venom expunged from his eyes.

“Why wouldn’t I hate him, Antoinetta mia?  You are half in love with him.”

“I am not,” denied Tony indignantly.  “He is just like Lar—.”  She broke off abruptly, remembering Dick’s flare of resentment at that familiar formula, remembering too the kiss she had given him in the dimly-lit hall in the Hostelry, the kiss which had not been precisely such a one as she would have given Larry.

Alan’s face darkened again.

“Oh, yes, you are.  You are blushing.”

“I am not.”  Then putting her hands up to her face and feeling it warm she changed her tactics.  “Well, what, if I am?  I do care a lot about Dick.  I found out the other night that I cared a whole lot more than I knew.  It isn’t like caring for Larry and Ted.  It’s different.  For after all he isn’t my brother—­never was—­never will be.  I’m a wretched flirt, Alan.  You know it as well as I do.  I’ve let Dick keep on loving me, knowing all the time I didn’t mean to marry him.  And I’m not a bit sure I am going to marry you either.”

“Tony!”

“Well, anyway not for a long, long time.  I want to go on the stage.  I can’t put all of myself into my work and give it to you at the same time.  I don’t want to get married.  I don’t dare to.  I don’t dare even let myself care too much.  I want to be free.”

“You want to be loved.”

“Of course.  Every woman does.”

Alan made an impatient gesture.

“I don’t mean lip-worship.  You are a woman, not a piece of statuary.  Come on now.  Let’s dance.”

They danced.  In her lover’s arms, their feet keeping time to the syncopated, stirring rhythms of the violins, their hearts beating to a mightier harmony of nature’s own brewing, Tony Holiday was far from being a piece of statuary.  She was all woman, a woman very much alive and very much in love.

Alan bent over her.

“Tony, belovedest.  There are more things than art in the world,” he said softly.  “Don’t you know it, feel it?  There is life.  And life is bigger than your work or mine.  We’re both artists, but we’ll be bigger artists together.  Marry me now.  Don’t make me wait.  Don’t make yourself wait.  You want it as much as I do.  Say yes, sweetheart,” he implored.

Tony shook her head vehemently.  She was afraid.  She knew that just now all her dreams of success in her chosen art, all her love for the dear ones at home were as nothing in comparison with this greater thing which Alan called life and which she felt surging mightily within her.  But she also knew that this way lay madness, disloyalty, regret.  She must be strong, strong for Alan as well as for herself.