“It is folly,” said he, with sudden disgust.  “And it would kill me.”

“Well, then,” she replied, receding.  “You’re entitled to die.”

He advanced towards her.  She kept him away with a gesture.

“You want me to marry you?” she questioned.

“It is essential,” he said, very seriously.  “I adore you.  I can’t do anything because of you.  I can’t think of anything but you.  You are more marvellous than anyone can be.  You cannot appreciate what you are to me!”

“And suppose you are nothing to me?”

“But it is necessary that you should love me!”

“Why?  I see no necessity.  You want me—­because you want me.  That’s all.  I can’t help it if you’re mad.  Your attitude is insulting.  You have not given one thought to my feelings.  And if I said ‘yes’ to you, you’d marry me whatever my feelings were.  You think only of yourself.  It is the old attitude.  And when I offer you my friendship, you instantly decline it.  That shows how horribly French you are.  Frenchmen can’t understand the idea of friendship between a man and a girl.  They sneer at it.  It shows what brutes you all are.  Why should I marry you?  I should have nothing to gain by it.  You’ll be famous.  Well, what do I care?  Do you think it would be very amusing for me to be the wife of a famous man that was run after by every silly creature in Paris or London or New York?  Not quite!  And I don’t see myself.  You don’t like young girls.  I don’t like young men.  They’re rude and selfish and conceited.  They’re like babies.”

“The fact is,” Musa broke in, “you are in love with the old Gilman.”

“He is not old!” cried Audrey.  “In some ways he is much less worn out than you are.  And supposing I am in love with Mr. Gilman?  Does it regard you?  Do not be rude.  Mr. Gilman is at any rate polite.  He is not capricious.  He is reliable.  You aren’t reliable.  You want someone upon whom you can rely.  How nice for your wife!  You play the violin.  True.  You are a genius.  But you cannot always be on the platform.  And when you are not on the platform...!  Heavens!  If I wish to hear you play I can buy a seat and come and hear you and go away again.  But your wife, responsible for your career—­she will never be free.  Her life will be unbearable.  What anxiety!  Misery, I should say rather!  You would have the lion’s share of everything.  Now for myself I intend to have the lion’s share.  And why shouldn’t I?  Isn’t it about time some woman had it?  You can’t have the lion’s share if you are not free.  I mean to be free.  If I marry I shall want a husband that is not a prison....  Thank goodness I’ve got money....  Without that——!”

“Then,” said Musa, “you have no feeling for me.”

“Love?” she laughed exasperatingly.

“Yes,” he said.

“Not that much!” She snapped her fingers.  “But”—­in a changed tone—­“I should like to like you.  I shall be very disgusted if your concerts are not a tremendous success.  And they will not be if you don’t keep control over yourself and practise properly.  And it will be your fault.”