"You don't know what it is, after that scene of your death on the stage, where I couldn't get to you--where another man was your lover--to touch you again, alive and warm, your own adorable, vivid self.

You _will_ let me go home with you, in your carriage, anyhow as far as the house, and kiss you good-night there, even if you're so tired you must drive me out then ?" I would have given all my success of that night, and more, to say "yes." But instead I had to stumble into excuses.

I had to argue that we mustn't be seen leaving the theatre together--yet, until everyone knew that we were engaged.

As for letting him come to me at home, if he dreamt how my head ached, he wouldn't ask it.

I almost broke down as I said this; and poor Raoul was so sorry for me that he immediately offered to leave me at once.
"It's a great sacrifice, though, to give up what I've been looking forward to for days," he said, "and to let you go from me to-night of all nights." "Why to-night of all nights ?", I asked quickly, my coward conscience frightening me again.
"Only because I love you more than ever, and--it's a stupid feeling, of course, I suppose all the fault of that last scene in the play--yet I feel as if--But no, I don't want to say it." "You must say it," I cried.
"Well, if only to hear you contradict me, then.