I do not think that it tugged at the heart of Elise.  Her heart was not like that.  It was a stay-at-home heart.  A workaday-world heart.  Elise would never under any circumstance have gone forth with a vagabond on a wild night.

But here was Ursula doing it every day.  On the evening of the first dress-rehearsal she wore clothes that showed her sense of fitness.  As if in casting off conventional restraints, she renounced conventional attire; she came down to her lover wrapped in a cloak of the deep-purple bloom of the heather of the moor, and there was a pheasant’s feather in her cap.

“May you never regret it, my dear, my dear,” said the lover on the stage.

“I shall love you for a million years,” said Ursula, and we felt that she would, and that love was eternal, and that any woman might have it if she would put her hand in her lover’s and run away with him on a wild night!

And it was the genius of Jimmie Harding that made us feel that the thing could be done.  He sat forward in his chair, his arms on the back of the seat in front of him.  “Jove!” he kept saying under his breath.  “It’s the real thing.  It’s the real thing—­”

When the scene was over, he went on the stage and stood by Ursula.  Elise from her seat watched them.  Ursula had taken off the cap with the pheasant’s feather.  Her glorious hair shone like copper, her hand was on her hip, her little swagger matched the swagger that we remembered in the old Jimmie.  I wondered if Elise remembered.

* * * * *

I am not sure what made Ursula care for Jimmie Harding.  He was no longer a figure for romance.  But she did care.  It was, perhaps, that she saw in him the fundamental things which belonged to both of them, and which did not belong to Elise.

As the days went on I was sorry for Elise.  I should never have believed that I could be sorry, but I was.  Jimmie was always punctiliously polite to her.  But he was only that.

“She’s getting what she deserves,” Duncan said, but I felt that she was, perhaps, getting more than she deserved.  For, after all, it was she who had kept Jimmie at it, and it was her keeping him at it which had brought success.

Neither Duncan nor I could tell how Jimmie felt about Ursula.  But the thought of her troubled my sleep.  Stripped of her art, she was not in the least the heroine of Jimmie’s play.  She was of coarser clay, commoner.  And Jimmie was fine.  The fear I had was that he might clothe her with the virtues which he had created, and the thought, as I have said, troubled me.

At last Duncan and I had to go home, although we promised to return for the opening night.  Ursula gave a farewell supper for us.  She lived alone with a housekeeper and maid.  Her apartment was furnished in good taste, with, perhaps, a touch of over-emphasis.  The table had unshaded purple candles and heather in glass dishes.  Ursula wore woodland green, with a chaplet of heather about her glorious hair.  Elise was in white with pearls.  She was thirty-five, but she did not look it.  Ursula was older, but she would always be in a sense ageless, as such women are—­one would thrill to Sara Bernhardt were she seventeen or seventy.