Her observations of the women about her who gave all for so little, her meditations upon them, and the conclusions she drew from their maimed lives only emphasized the resisting force of her nature.  She was not born to be a leaf in the current, whirled by the force of waters into a safe haven or an engulfing whirlpool as chance might decide; she must dominate the currents.

And with the temptations of her youth, and her ardent emotional temperament, would also come the remembrance of those haggard girls with their pinched blue lips, the suffering in their eyes, their delicate faces aged and yellowed and lined and spoiled, weeping with shaking sobs, telling her pitiful stories, and begging her for money, for a word with the management.  And, when they had gone, she had turned to her looking-glass and gazed at herself with conscious pride and delight.  Contempt, not pity, stirred her heart for the draggled butterflies whose gauzy irridescence was but for a moment; and before her mirror she constantly renewed her vows that never would she barter her bloom, her freshness, her exquisite grace for what those girls had to show.

She had seen a great French actress roll across the desert in her private car, to meet in every city the adulation of thousands and it had stimulated her ambition enormously.  She was by nature as insatiable as the horse-leech’s daughter; she would take all—­love, money, jewels in return for her barren coquetries.  The fact that she was “straight,” as she phrased it, gave her sufficient excuse for her arrogant domination.

Unfortunately for Hanson, there was no particular temptation in what he could offer in the way of professional advancement.  She was perfectly cognizant of her own ability, aware that its resources were scarcely developed.  Already her field widened continually.  She was in perpetual demand with her public, and therefore with her managers.

But she loved Hanson.  In all of the love affairs in which she had been involved she had never really cared before, and now only her strong will kept this attraction from proving overmastering.  And here came the struggle.  The right or the wrong of the matter, the morals of it, did not touch her.  It was the clash of differing desires, a clash between passion and this secret, long-cherished pride of virtue.

“Honey, honey,” he was back at her side again; his voice was hoarse and ragged, but for that very reason it moved her.  All at once the primitive woman, loving, yielding, glad and proud to yield, stirred in her, rose and dominated her hard ambition.  She lifted her head a little and, still with it turned from him, looked at the pagan glory of the day.  Her eyes closed with the delight of that moment.  She felt her resistance breaking down, the weakening and softening of her resolutions.  Was she at last to know the splendor of loving and giving?

“Ain’t you played with me long enough, Pearl?” his voice was in her ear, a broken, husky whisper.  “What’s the use?  Why, of course,” grasping at his usual self-confidence, “I’m a fool to get scared this way.  You’ve showed me that you care, you have, honey; and I guess,” with a nervous laugh, “the Black Pearl hasn’t got any damn fool scruples such as I’ve been frightening myself out of my skin by attributing to her.”