That is different, isn't it, from the people who follow you about and
want to stare at you just because you are prosperous and popular? The
people who really appreciate your art--those are the people you would
not disappoint for all the world. They make up a vast friendship that
is very precious, and it would be a sacrifice--a big--sacrifice--to give
it up. That is the sort of sacrifice that marriage meant to Rosa Mundi.
And though she wanted marriage--and she wanted to be good--she
hesitated."
There was a little pause. Randal Courteney was no longer dissembling his
interest. He had laid his pipe aside, and was watching with unvarying
intentness the downcast childish face. He asked no questions. There was
something in the low-spoken words that held him silent. Perhaps he
feared to probe too deep.
In a few moments she went on, gathering up a little handful of the
shining shingle, and slowly sifting it through her fingers as though in
search of something precious.
"I think if she had really loved the man, it wouldn't have mattered.
Nothing counts like love, does it? But--you see--she didn't. She wanted
to. She knew that he was clean and honourable, worthy of a good woman.
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