Five times I had to go back and smile, and bow, and look delighted with the ovation I was having.

Then, when the time came that I could escape, I met on the way to my dressing-room men carrying big harps and crowns, baskets and bunches of flowers which had been sent up to me on the stage.

I pushed past, hardly glancing at them, for I knew that Raoul would be waiting.
There he was, radiant with his unselfish pride in me--my big, handsome lover, looking more like the Apollo Belvedere come alive and dressed in modern clothes than like an ordinary diplomatic young man from the Foreign Office.

But then, of course, he is really quite out of place in diplomacy.

Since he can't exist on a marble pedestal or some Old Master's canvas, he ought at least to be a poet or an artist--and so he is at heart; not one, but both; and a dreamer of beautiful dreams, as beautiful and noble as his own clear-cut face, which might be cold if it were not for the eyes, and lips.
There were people about, and we spoke like mere acquaintances until I'd led Raoul into the little boudoir which adjoins my dressing-room.
Then--well, we spoke no longer like mere acquaintances.