He ignored her question. "I am not a man who can live two lives," he
went on feverishly. "Each life spoils the other. I get nothing but
misery out of either. The world is all there, just as it used to be,
but I can't get at it any more. There is this deception between me and
everything."
At that word "deception," spoken with such self-contempt, the color
flashed back into Hilda's face as suddenly as if she had been struck
by a whiplash. She bit her lip and looked down at her hands, which were
clasped tightly in front of her.
"Could you--could you sit down and talk about it quietly, Bartley, as if
I were a friend, and not some one who had to be defied?"
He dropped back heavily into his chair by the fire. "It was myself I was
defying, Hilda. I have thought about it until I am worn out."
He looked at her and his haggard face softened. He put out his hand
toward her as he looked away again into the fire.
She crept across to him, drawing her stool after her. "When did you
first begin to feel like this, Bartley?"
"After the very first. The first was--sort of in play, wasn't it?"
Hilda's face quivered, but she whispered: "Yes, I think it must have
been. But why didn't you tell me when you were here in the summer?"
Alexander groaned. "I meant to, but somehow I couldn't. We had only a
few days, and your new play was just on, and you were so happy."
"Yes, I was happy, wasn't I?" She pressed his hand gently in gratitude.
"Weren't you happy then, at all?"
She closed her eyes and took a deep breath, as if to draw in again the
fragrance of those days.
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