They came around her in crowds. They made love
to her. She was young, and their homage was like a coloured ball to
her. She tossed it to and fro, and played with it. But she made game of
it all. They were nothing to her--nothing, till one day there came to
her a boy--no, he was past his boyhood--a young man--rich, well-born,
and honourable. And he--he loved her, and offered her--marriage. No one
had ever offered her that before. Can you realize--but no, you are a
man!--what it meant to her? It meant shelter and peace and freedom. It
meant honour and kindness, and the chance to be good. Perhaps you think
she would not care for that. But you do not know her. Rosa Mundi was
meant to be good. She hungered for goodness. She was tired--so tired of
the gaudy vanities of life, so--so--what is the word--so nauseated with
the cheap and the bad. Are you sorry for her, I wonder? Can you picture
her, longing--oh, longing--for what she calls respectability? And
then--this chance, this offer of deliverance! It meant giving up her
career, of course. It meant changing her whole life. It meant
sacrifice--the sort of sacrifice that you ought to be able to
understand--for she loved her dancing and her triumphs, just as you love
your public--the people who read your books and love you for their sake.
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