to do when I was old.  He said I’d have no real home, and no haven of love; and that I’d better be the queen of his home as long as I lived than to rule it a little while there on the stage and then—­be forgotten.  Oh, it isn’t what he said that counts.  All that sounds flat enough as I repeat it.  It’s the wonder of being with some one that loves you like that and of feeling that there are two of you who belong—­”

“How do you know you belong?” asked Kate with sharp good sense.  “Why, bright one, you’ve been swept off your feet by mere—­forgive me—­by mere sex.”

That glint of the eyes which Kate called Celtic flashed from Marna.

“Mere sex!” she repeated.  “Mere sex!  You’re not trying to belittle that, are you?  Why, Kate, that’s the beginning and the end of things.  What I’ve always liked about you is that you look big facts in the face and aren’t afraid of truth.  Sex!  Why, that’s home and happiness and all a woman really cares for, isn’t it?”

“No, it isn’t all she cares for,” declared Kate valiantly.  “She cares for a great many other things.  And when I said mere sex I was trying to put it politely.  Is it really home and lifelong devotion that you two are thinking about, or are you just drunk with youth and—­well, with infatuation?”

Marna turned from her to the fire.

“Kate,” she said, “I don’t know what you call it, but when I looked in his eyes I felt as if I had just seen the world for the first time.  I have liked to live, of course, and to study, and it was tremendously stirring, singing there before all those people.  But, honestly, I can see it would lead nowhere.  A few years of faint celebrity, an empty heart, a homeless life—­then weariness.  Oh, I know it.  I have a trick of seeing things.  Oh, he’s the man for me, Kate.  I realized it the moment he pointed it out.  We could not be mistaken.  I shall love him forever and he’ll love me just as I love him.”

“By the way,” said Kate, “who is he?  Someone from the opera company?”

“Who is he?  Why, he’s George Fitzgerald, of course.”

“Mrs. Dennison’s nephew?”

“Certainly.  Who else should it be?”

“Why, he’s a pleasant enough young man—­very cheerful and quite intelligent—­but, Marna—­”

Marna leaped to her feet.

“You’re not in a position to pass judgment upon him, Kate.  How can you know what a wonderful soul he has?  Why, there’s no one so brave, or so humble, or so sweet, or with such a worship for women—­”

“For you, you mean.”

“Of course I mean for me.  You don’t suppose I’d endure it to have him worshiping anybody else, do you?  Oh, it’s no use protesting.  I only hope that Mrs. Barsaloux won’t.”

“Yes, doesn’t that give you pause?  Think of all Mrs. Barsaloux has done for you; and she did it with the understanding that you were to go on the stage.  She was going to get her reward in the contribution you made to art.”