“And I do not suppose they troubled themselves much about fine sunsets,” said he.  “That was not what they had to think about in those days.”

“Perhaps not,” said she, lightly; “but, you know, I had expected to find a place from which I could gain some inspiration for tragedy—­for I should like to try, once for all—­if I should have to give up the stage—­whether I had the stuff of a tragic actress in me.  And, you know, in that case, I ought to dress in black velvet, and carry a taper through dungeons, and get accustomed to storms, and gloom, and thunder and lightning.”

“We have no appliances here for the education of an actress—­I am very sorry,” said he.

“Now, Keith, that is hardly fair,” said she, with a smile.  “You know it is only a trial.  And you saw what they said of my Juliet.  Oh, did I tell you about the new tragedy that is coming out?”

“No, I do not think you did,” said he.

“Ah, well, it is a great secret as yet; but there is no reason why you should not hear of it.”

“I am not anxious to hear of it,” said he, without any rudeness.

“But it concerns me,” she said, “and so I must tell you.  It is written by a brother of Mr. Lemuel, the artist I have often spoken to you about.  He is by profession an architect; but if this play should turn out to be as fine as some people say it is, he ought to take to dramatic writing.  In fact, all the Lemuels—­there are three brothers of them, you know—­are like Michael Angelo and Leonardo—­artists to the finger-tips, in every direction—­poets, painters, sculptors, and all the rest of it.  And I do think I ought to feel flattered by their choice in asking me to play the heroine; for so much depends on the choice of the actress—­”

“And you are still to act?” said he, quickly, though he spoke in a low voice, so that those behind should not hear.

“Surely I explained to you?” said she, in a pleasant manner.  “After all, lifelong habits are not so easily cast aside; and I knew you would be generous, and bear with me a little bit, Keith.”

He turned to her.  The glow of the sunset caught his face.  There was a strange, hopeless sadness in his eyes.

“Generous to you?” said he.  “You know I would give you my life if that would serve you.  But this is worse than taking my life from me.”

“Keith, Keith!” said she, in gentle protest, “I don’t know what you mean.  You should not take things so seriously.  What is it, after all?  It was as an actress that you knew me first.  What is the difference of a few months more or less?  If I had not been an actress, you would never have known me—­do you recollect that?  By the way, has Major Stuart’s wife got a piano?”

He turned and stared at her for a second, in a bewildered way.

“Oh yes,” said he, with a laugh, “Mrs. Stuart has got a piano; she has got a very good piano.  And what is the song you would sing now, sweetheart?  Shall we finish up and have done with it, with a song at the end?  That is the way in the theatre, you know—­a dance and a song as the people go.  And what shall our song be now?  There was one that Norman Ogilvie used to sing.”