“Blanche!” he said; “won’t you tell me what is the matter?”

Blanche said nothing; tears of pity suddenly choked her, and the knowledge of the blow she was about to deal.  Ishmael at last brought himself to voice his dread.

“You aren’t disappointed in it all—­or in me?” he asked in a low voice.  “You’re not getting—­bored, are you, Blanche?  After all, the actress sees the seamiest side of town; you won’t mind leaving it?  I know I’m offering you a very different life from what you’re used to, but”—­with a shade of the decisiveness that had always attracted her to him—­“it will be much better for you.  No late hours, no more of the sandwiches-at-odd-times game.  We shall be very happy, just us two, even if we don’t know people.  People!” he cried scornfully, a wave of passion breaking over him as he caught her to him.  “What do we want with other people?”

Pressing her almost roughly against him, he bent her head back into the curve of his arm and kissed her fiercely.  She lay passive, deliberately taking all he gave and thrilling to it.  Self-pity surged over her; she had been so happy—­not only happy, but so much better!  It was very hard, she felt, as she trembled with pleasure under his kisses.  She shrank from giving pain, but she shrank still more from lowering herself in his eyes, and the situation needed all her skill.  Disengaging herself from his arms, she faced him with what she felt to be a brave little smile.

“Ishmael!  My poor boy; Ishmael!” she said.

He was suddenly very grave, but waited silently.

Still, he said nothing, and she took his hand in hers and spoke very gently.

“Ishmael, dear one! listen to me.  You must see that it’s impossible, that it would never do.”

He did see it, her very certainty showed him plainly enough; but still he fought against it, bringing forward every plea, and ending with what was to him the great argument:  “But if we love each other?”

“Of course love is very important, Ishmael,” said Blanche, choosing her words carefully; “but don’t you see how important other things are too?  It’s the externals that matter most in this life, Ishmael; see how they matter to you, who have worked so hard to alter them.”

“You can be clever about it,” said Ishmael, a new look that was almost suspicion glinting in his eyes; “I can’t talk round a thing, but I know things.  I know I love you and would spend my life trying to make you happy.  You say you aren’t happy in your own life.”

“But how could I be happy without my friends and my own kind of people, Ishmael?” asked Blanche reproachfully.  She did not add that, being incapable of loyalty, she had no real friends, but suddenly she saw it as true, and staggered under the flood of self-pity that followed.  Losing Ishmael, she was indeed bereft, not only of him, but of her new self, and with the worst of all pangs—­loneliness—­striking through her, she laid her arms against the hedge and,