7o
 
 THE SOUL OF LIFE
 
 THE 
 
 SOUL OF LIFE 
 
 OR 
 
 What is Love ? 
 
 By DAVID LISLE 
 
 AUTHOR OF 
 "A PAINTER OF SOULS," AND "A KINGDOM DIVIDED" 
 
 'For surely love is the soul of life." 
 R. M. L. 
 
 NEW YORK 
 
 FREDERICK A. STOKES COMPANY 
 PUBLISHERS
 
 COPYRIGHT, 1913, BY FREDERICK A. STOKES COMPANY 
 PUBLISHED IN ENGLAND UNDER THE TITLE OF "WHAT IS LOVE?' 
 
 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED 
 
 SECOND PRINTING 
 
 December. 1913
 
 TO 
 
 MY FRIEND 
 IDALIA V1LLIERS-WARDEL 
 
 2136767
 
 THE SOUL OF LIFE
 
 THE SOUL OF LIFE 
 
 OR 
 
 What is Love? 
 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 UNDER the pale lemon light of a fantastic 
 Chinese lamp a woman half lay, half 
 crouched on a low divan piled up with mag- 
 nificent cushions. Her great dark eyes were 
 dilated with excitement. She talked incessantly. 
 
 A tall man with a pointed beard and tired 
 eyes was leaning over her, taking rapid notes. 
 He looked abnormally intelligent ; as a secretary 
 he was invaluable when he took the trouble to 
 forget that he had the right to an old Austrian 
 title and had been passing rich before faith in 
 Zero had forced him to apply for the viatique. 
 
 The room was large, but it seemed over- 
 crowded with eager talkers. Butterfly friends 
 in Rue de la Paix gowns overflowed with fine 
 enthusiasm. Designers waited impatiently for 
 the final word which would permit them to re- 
 turn to their studios. Messengers came in and out 
 bearing telegrams and pneumatiques covered 
 with decorative, often illegible, handwriting. 
 Every one sought to be heard and seen. The 
 perfumes of Guerlain and Piver mingled with 
 
 i
 
 2 WHAT IS LOVE? 
 
 the scent of powders and toilet waters. The 
 subtle, almost stifling, breath of many stepha- 
 notis stalks crept up and up from the heart of a 
 jar of old Awata fayence. The atmosphere was 
 enervating, but the woman on the divan seemed 
 full of vivid life. 
 
 By turns she commanded, dictated, smiled, 
 fascinated. She dominated the room by her 
 mere presence in it. She was an autocratic 
 sovereign in the society of willing slaves. 
 
 Suddenly she clapped her hands sharply and 
 lay back amongst the cushions, her eyes closed. 
 
 It was a well-known signal. A moment later 
 the room was empty, save for an old woman, 
 slightly deformed, who was moving about noise- 
 lessly arranging flowers, folding lengths of 
 gorgeous brocade, hanging up dresses in the vast 
 wardrobes which lined the walls. 
 
 It was the dressing-room of the most success- 
 ful actress of her century, and it was situated 
 high up in the dome of her own special theater. 
 A famous architect had obeyed orders when con- 
 structing this isolated nest, with its immensely 
 thick walls to deaden outside sounds and its 
 private lift which was guarded, night and day, 
 by one of La Belle Gerome's Indian servants. 
 When the mistress of the luxurious nest chose 
 to be alone a single word of command made it 
 impossible for any living soul to approach her.
 
 WHAT IS LOVE? 3 
 
 She was more autocratic than any Empress. In 
 her own particular kingdom her word, even her 
 swift glance, was law. 
 
 Lucienne Gerome had often been called 
 "Lucienne the Magnificent," and with reason. 
 She was riotously superb and extravagant: in 
 her art, in her life, in all things. In many re- 
 spects she had the imagination of a Nero and 
 that imagination had never known the restraint 
 of a curb. A beautiful, reckless woman who had 
 made friends with the spirit of genius, who firm- 
 ly believed that that spirit had found an abiding- 
 place in her soul. 
 
 She was taking a moment of repose after a 
 long rehearsal. 
 
 Not that she was tired bodily fatigue was 
 almost unknown to her but she wished to think 
 out a small problem. 
 
 She was alone, for the faithful Cora did not 
 count; but as the moments swept by she was 
 conscious of becoming more and more restless. 
 The room was perfectly ventilated but the at- 
 mosphere was charged with enervating fumes. 
 From a distant table a thread of silver smoke 
 ascended lazily from the distorted mouth of a 
 hideous dragon whose bronze body formed a 
 koro t or incense-burner. The monster bore the 
 signature of Sei-min, but the powder which was 
 eating into its vitals had nothing in it of Japan.
 
 4 WHAT IS LOVE? 
 
 It was one of the many specialpreparationswhich 
 were thrown together, with fiendish knowledge, 
 by certain Orientals who were permanently at- 
 tached to the suite of La Belle Gerome. She was 
 a connoisseur of the senses. She adored them : 
 pandered to them unceasingly. She knew that 
 by the subtle aid of strange essences certain 
 natures could be roused to frenzy or lulled to 
 
 dream-laden sleep. 
 
 ***** 
 
 The luxurious cushions pressed against her 
 sinuous body, giving it unwelcome support and 
 warmth. With an imperious gesture she sprang 
 to her feet and pushed back some heavy waves 
 of pale gold hair from her forehead. 
 
 She was a woman of medium height, mag- 
 nificently, voluptuously shaped. Her rounded 
 throat seemed carved in ivory, but it had lost the 
 entrancing flatness of youth. The fine curves of 
 her bust were classic, but with the classicism of 
 Milo Venus in maturity, not of Nausicaa. 
 
 All her life she had been discussed, lauded, 
 toasted as La belle blonde aux yeux noirs. For 
 she was amazingly, and quite naturally, fair of 
 hair and skin, while her great passionate eyes 
 were liquid globes of velvet darkness. 
 
 No one, not even her maid Cora, could have 
 told the original color of the brows and lashes. 
 Ever since the name of Lucienne Gerome had
 
 WHAT IS LOVE? 5 
 
 become famous in all the capitals of Europe they 
 had been almost black. Not dead black, for 
 Cora was a clever artist, but of that mysterious 
 shade known as tete de negre. 
 
 It was undeniable that Lucienne Gerome had 
 the most wonderful eyes in the world. Equally 
 undeniable that her full lips, faintly crimson and 
 curved like Cupidon's bow, had lost something 
 of their early suppleness and that the coarse out- 
 line of her nostrils had borrowed strength from 
 the passing years. 
 
 She was still a supremely lovely woman, still 
 the greatest emotional actress on the French 
 stage but she was forty-eight. No one knew 
 this, as a matter of actual fact, except the de- 
 voted maid and herself. But facts, especially 
 facts connected with the age of a woman who 
 puts unbounded faith in physical charms, are 
 tenacious things. They may be silenced, but they 
 never let go their hold on the heart-strings. 
 
 The telephone bell rang sharply. Cora an- 
 swered it. A second later she spoke a few rapid 
 words and Lucienne made a gesture of assent. 
 Her nostrils dilated and quivered with impa- 
 tience. 
 
 She rested her hands, with their golden palms 
 and brilliant, shell-pink nails, on her knees and 
 held her flexible body in a tense, snake-like curve
 
 6 WHAT IS LOVE? 
 
 which was very characteristic. Some one 
 knocked sharply and she cried out "Entrez." 
 
 A big, loosely-built man came in slowly. She 
 smiled at him and swept her arms towards a 
 roomy chair. He threw himself heavily into it 
 and folded his arms. For a moment there was 
 silence. The man, through half-closed eyes, 
 scanned the face of the woman who had made a 
 fortune for him. 
 
 He was remarkable looking. Even a casual 
 observer must have picked him out in a crowd as 
 something out of the ordinary. His hair was 
 rather long and curiously crisp : almost like the 
 hair of a negro. It was iron grey : a little darker 
 than his pointed beard, but shades whiter than 
 his heavy moustache. In dress he was exag- 
 geratedly "artistic." His loose, velvet coat sug- 
 gested a studio in the Quartier Latin, and so did 
 his low collar and silk tie knotted in a careless 
 bow. A handsome man in some respects, for his 
 features were good, but his skin was rough and 
 rather too red, and his mouth, partly concealed 
 by a fierce moustache, was cynical, even cruel. 
 
 Jules Rivaud, the world-famous theatrical 
 manager, was as successful in his own line as 
 Lucienne Gerome in hers. He was determined, 
 unscrupulous, caustic, witty. A first-rate com- 
 panion at a Bohemian supper-party, an incom- 
 parable man of business. "Hard as nails" his
 
 WHAT IS LOVE? 7 
 
 enemies, and indeed some of his friends, de- 
 clared him to be : and with truth. 
 
 For over twenty-five years he had been 
 Lucienne Gerome's manager and general adviser. 
 In a way he had created her, for he was a past- 
 master of the art of subtle advertisement. With 
 skilled fingers he played on the emotions of the 
 masses; now rousing them to frenzied curiosity 
 over some love adventure in which royal person- 
 ages played leading roles ; now calling up waves 
 of sympathy for an exquisitely lovely creature 
 who had long been misunderstood and slandered. 
 He knew his public, and Lucienne's. He had 
 never once, through all the stormy seasons in the 
 capitals of Europe and America, let go his hold 
 upon the emotions of the people. He had never 
 once allowed his genuinely artistic instincts to 
 cloud over his clear vision of what the paying 
 public demands. 
 
 In the little moment of silence he leaned back 
 heavily and scanned Lucienne's face. His steel- 
 grey eyes, the most remarkable feature in his 
 face, took in every detail of dress and figure with 
 merciless certainty. 
 
 She was splendidly handsome yet! 
 
 Under the pale light of the fantastic lamp she 
 looked curiously fair and attractive. Her feet, 
 perfect in shape, heirlooms from a far-back
 
 8 WHAT IS LOVE? 
 
 Spanish ancestor, were thrust into mules of silver 
 brocade. She was swathed in laces which glis- 
 tened with silver embroideries. Outlining the 
 curves of her white breast there was a band of 
 dark sable. She had pushed a cluster of waxen 
 stephanotis into the silver belt which held the 
 laces in place. It was one of the many hun- 
 dreds if the newspapers were to be believed 
 sheathe robes which hung in the mirror-faced 
 wardrobes: vague sheathes of embroideries and 
 furs and laces which cost fabulous sums and 
 which were worn again the newspapers di- 
 rectly over silk maillots. For many years the 
 Gerome ligne had been the ambition and despair 
 of European beauties. And as the years glided 
 by Lucienne gave more and more rein to her 
 imagination. She revelled in sumptuous sur- 
 roundings. Her peculiar type of beauty, exotic 
 as a black iris, seemed to gain fresh fascination 
 
 from its too gorgeous frames. 
 
 ***** 
 
 Jules Rivaud twisted his big cigar in his full 
 lips and ran his fingers through his beard. 
 
 "What have you in the back of your mind just 
 now ? You frightened the little Bering girl most 
 horribly. Of course you know that?" 
 
 Lucienne shrugged her shoulders and twisted 
 a corner of her lace scarf into a knot. Her dark 
 eyes narrowed and gleamed.
 
 WHAT IS LOVE'? 9 
 
 "She was absurd ridiculous. She'll never 
 understand 'Madeleine Delorme' never feel 
 the role." 
 
 "Oh, 'feel'? At her age?" 
 
 " 'Madeleine Delorme' is supposed to be only 
 seventeen. Isola Bering is eighteen at least." 
 
 "At most!" Rivaud laughed as he spoke. 
 Lucienne glanced at him irritably. 
 
 "Very well eighteen. One year older than 
 Madeleine. It ought to be ideal." 
 
 "Perhaps it is, in a way." 
 
 Another short chuckle broke from the man's 
 compressed lips and the woman's irritation broke 
 bounds. With the gesture of a snake-charmer 
 preparing to call forth his writhing slaves she sat 
 erect, with body curved and tense, and nervous 
 hands pressed down on her knees like the hands 
 of an Egyptian god. It was a typical "Gerome 
 pose." Rivaud suppressed an inclination to 
 smile. He knew that at certain moments his 
 Star might shoot, scorching him in its rapid 
 flight ! 
 
 For a second the woman sat perfectly still on 
 her luxurious couch, with yellow light streaming 
 on her fair hair and turning it to living gold. 
 The man found himself making mental notes. 
 In such a pose, with such an expression on her 
 face, every photographer in the States would 
 clamor for the chance of giving him a free ad-
 
 10 WHAT IS LOVE? 
 
 vertisement. He waited. A moment later the 
 sluice-gates opened. 
 
 "I knew from the first how it would be. She 
 is pretty and charming but an amateur. It's 
 natural enough since she has only been a few 
 months on the stage, but in her case experience 
 won't count for much. All her life she will 
 remain braced up in traditions, whaleboned in 
 on dit." 
 
 Rivaud laughed outright. 
 
 "Que voulez-vous? A mere girl? A little 
 biche au bois who knows nothing of life?" 
 
 "At her age do you suppose / was a mere 
 girl? When I was only fourteen I played 
 'Phedre' in Henri Haussman's old studio, and 
 not at all badly. Before I was sixteen I was 
 hated, even feared, at the Francaise " 
 
 She stopped abruptly, a light that was almost 
 vicious gleaming in her dark eyes. Rivaud held 
 up his hand. 
 
 "You, my dear woman? You you you! 
 That's another pair of gloves. You're the eighth 
 wonder: Adrienne Lecouvreur come back to life, 
 with the Devil and Genius for sponsors. You?" 
 He puffed out a great cloud of cigar smoke and 
 leaned back. "Don't let us talk nonsense. This 
 little girl is pretty and more than ordinarily 
 clever. Every one will like her and every one 
 will make excuses if excuses are necessary.
 
 WHAT IS LOVE? 11 
 
 You've taken her up. You've pushed her to the 
 front. Of course she has had no experience, but 
 she looks the part to perfection. Leave her to 
 me ! I'll have a good talk with her." 
 
 Lucienne's nostrils suddenly distended and 
 quivered. She shook her head violently. 
 
 "Leave her to you no. You don't realize 
 what's wrong. It's her frame, her outlook, her 
 education. She's laced into a tight corset of 
 'nice ideas' and English correctness. That im- 
 possible little aunt of hers would ruin the pros- 
 pects of a budding Rachel, and Isola isn't that. 
 She's too heavily handicapped. If she is ever to 
 succeed she must push aside her dear correct rela- 
 tives and friends. She must strike out alone 
 there's no other way." 
 
 "You propose?" 
 
 "To make her realize the real nature of 
 'Madeleine Delorme' or to get some one else to 
 undertake the role." 
 
 "You'll never get any one to fill it so ideally 
 so far as looks go." 
 
 "Probably not, but where an actress is con- 
 cerned looks are not enough. They must be 
 backed up by understanding." 
 
 "How do you intend " 
 
 Lucienne cut the sentence short by hastily 
 crossing the room to the telephone. She spoke 
 some words rapidly and then returned to the
 
 12 WHAT IS LOVE 4 ? 
 
 divan. Rivaud's expressive face was quivering 
 with suppressed amusement. 
 
 "Shall I go?" he asked. Lucienne made an 
 imperious gesture which commanded him to re- 
 main. She leaned back and closed her eyes 
 deliberately. 
 
 There was silence. Then the handle of the 
 door was softly turned. A girl entered. 
 
 She was rather tall, with a slender, supple fig- 
 ure, full of willowy grace. Golden-brown hair, 
 which looked pale in certain lights, waved 
 thickly over her proud little head. Her warmly- 
 tinted skin seemed to match the hair in goldness 
 of tone. Her lips were softly crimson, but the 
 matchless complexion recalled a hot-house peach 
 at its moment of golden perfection. A famous 
 modern poet had said of her that, like the Prin- 
 cesse de Conti, she was "the personification of a 
 kiss, the incarnation of an embrace, the ideal of 
 a dream of love!" 
 
 For an instant the girl stood still, one hand 
 resting on the handle of the door. She was 
 looking straight at the woman lying back 
 amongst the luxurious cushions, and as she 
 looked one realized that her eyes were marvels 
 of liquid fire. Violet-black eyes, melting and 
 full of unconscious caress haunting eyes ! 
 strangely like those of Miles Dering, the 
 "Painter of Souls" who had been adored by
 
 WHAT IS LOVE? 13 
 
 women of many nations. And this was natural, 
 since the girl was Bering's only daughter. 
 
 With a swift movement which had in it the 
 unconscious grace of a fawn, Isola sprang for- 
 ward and threw herself on her knees by the 
 divan. 
 
 "You forgive me ? You are not really angry? 
 I'm so sorry I was stupid. Indeed, indeed, I'll 
 do better to-morrow. I don't know what was 
 wrong this afternoon." 
 
 With a charming air of reverence she kissed 
 the nervous hand which was pressed against the 
 actress's knee. Lucienne opened her eyes and 
 smiled faintly. At that moment the likeness 
 between them was very marked. For several 
 moments she looked straight into the girl's eyes. 
 Then she sat up and closed her tenacious fingers 
 round the soft wrist. 
 
 "Angry no. Disappointed yes. You make 
 no real progress, petite. You speak your lines as 
 a clever parrot might speak them. You are 
 Isola Bering all the time. Very pretty and 
 charming, I grant, but 'Madeleine Belorme' 
 never!" 
 
 The girl flushed. She was too proud to cry, 
 but the afternoon had been a terrible one. Her 
 nerves were strung up to snapping pitch. She
 
 14 WHAT IS LOVE? 
 
 was silent because she did not dare to trust her 
 voice. Lucienne watched her as a student of 
 vivisection might watch the quiver of a naked 
 nerve. The silence had become oppressive before 
 the great actress spoke again. 
 
 "What do you know of her, really? Of 
 Madeleine Delorme ? What do you know of her 
 secret tastes? Of her thoughts? Of her ambi- 
 tions ? Of her education ? Of her very clothes ? 
 For Madeleine was an emancipated jeune fille. 
 She had a dress allowance. She could choose 
 her own clothes. She could even choose her own 
 lingerie. Come tell me what you know of her. 
 Is she a young girl who would wear openwork 
 stockings with a little morning gown? Would 
 she select lingerie trimmed with a very little real 
 Valenciennes lace, or would she buy semi-trans- 
 parent things at a Magasin de Nouveautes? 
 What type of perfume does she use, and how 
 does she use it? How would she touch a cluster 
 of roses if she were quite alone? What are 
 her real, deep-down, likes and dislikes?" 
 
 Isola's lips quivered. She tried to speak, 
 but no sound came. Rivaud, who was sitting 
 behind her, made a gesture of remonstrance, but 
 Lucienne's face did not soften. She continued to 
 stare down into the depths of the girl's fright- 
 ened eyes. 
 
 "You don't know any one of these things.
 
 WHAT IS LOVE 9 if 
 
 You don't even realize that it is vitally impor- 
 tant you should know them." 
 
 "I never thought of it in that way." 
 The liquid voice was hoarse and strained, but 
 it called up no pity. 
 
 "C'est ca! You have spoken, my charming 
 little amateur. You have spoken the simple 
 truth. You have explained everything. At this 
 moment, when you are attempting to interpret a 
 very complicated character, you do not know 
 how to read the alphabet of my profession. You 
 imagine that if you are word-perfect, and if you 
 look pretty, all will go well. That because 
 Madeleine Delorme is a young girl, Isola Der- 
 ing, in her own character, can naturally interpret 
 her. You imagine it is enough to say that she is 
 a jenne fille of to-morrow sly, corrupt, exag- 
 geratedly vain, immoral of thought before im- 
 moral of action ! You are satisfied to remain 
 Isola Bering while you speak the words of 
 Madeleine Delorme." 
 
 "But what can I do what can I do?" 
 It was a heart cry. It moved the listening 
 man, but not the woman. Her fingers twitched. 
 Her eyes flashed fire. Her grasp on the girl's 
 arm tightened. 
 
 " 'Do' ? I remember hearing a little story 
 about an English actress who was great in her 
 day Mrs. Stirling. She went on the stage as a
 
 16 WHAT IS LOVE? 
 
 young girl, younger than you are now. She had 
 some success from the first, but not much. Sud- 
 denly she realized the possibilities and demands 
 of her art, and one night she rose to heights. A 
 famous actor who was playing the leading role 
 said to her in the wings, 'You've thrown aside 
 your corset at last !' He didn't mean a corset of 
 linen and bone; he meant a corset of environ- 
 ment. He knew she had realized that night, for 
 the first time, that an actress must be free from 
 all trammels. That she must sacrifice, and 
 willingly, everything to her art. That if she 
 plays the part of a vicious woman she must 
 understand what vice means how vice acts upon 
 individual characters what it does to them. She 
 must realize that unless she gets right into the 
 skin of a character she cannot play it adequately. 
 For the time being she must be the character, in 
 every smallest detail. You think I was speaking 
 half in jest when I asked if you knew whether 
 Madeleine Delorme wore, from choice, a little 
 real Valenciennes lace on her lingerie or a great 
 deal of imitation lace. But the whole character 
 of a girl, as of a woman, may be revealed in her 
 choice of lace in her choice of perfume in her 
 manner of using it. There is a whole world of 
 difference between the girl who would natu- 
 rally run a length of pink ribbon through the 
 insertions of her cache corset and the girl who
 
 WHAT IS LOVE? 17 
 
 would naturally choose white satin or a little 
 line of black velvet. Character reveals itself in 
 detail. The big emotions of life, like the big 
 actions, can be stage-managed and artificially col- 
 ored, but the little details which spring from 
 secret tastes and secret desires give the clue to 
 the real individual. It is these details that an 
 actress who wishes to become worthy of the name 
 must study with minute care. She must see the 
 character she is about to interpret when it is 
 alone. She must see it awake and asleep. She 
 must see its naked soul." 
 
 The golden voice, vibrating, compelling, rang 
 out through the perfumed room. Lucienne had 
 forgotten herself in her defence of her cherished 
 art. Quite unconsciously she had thrust the 
 kneeling girl aside and had risen to her feet. 
 Under the mellow light of the fantastic lamp she 
 looked magnificent. Isola stood up. She seemed 
 hypnotized. Her flower-like face had grown 
 very pale. In that moment of intense excitement 
 her dark eyes seemed immense. She was trem- 
 bling. 
 
 Rivaud watched them with eager eyes. The 
 organ which he was pleased to call his heart 
 throbbed with triumph. She was marvellous 
 La Belle Gerome ! Marvellous yet ! There was 
 a moment of silence. Then, as he saw the light 
 slowly fading from Lucienne's face, he spoke.
 
 i8 WHAT IS LOVE? 
 
 "You are wonderful, chere amie wonderful. 
 But you are asking too much from our little 
 biche au bois, for the moment. And, besides, 
 your view of the actor's art is a terrific one ! Only 
 about three actors, or actresses, in a century live 
 up to it. Adrienne Lecouvreur did, in a way, 
 but even she found it impossible to force herself 
 into a comedy 'skin.' I'm not sure that Diderot 
 and Constant Coquelin and Fechter weren't right 
 when they insisted that the actor's art is entirely 
 an affair of intelligence not of feeling. Coque- 
 lin, who was surely amongst the greatest, al- 
 ways held the view that the actor's art was to act 
 not to feel. That a cool and unemotional 
 mind ought to direct and govern the portrayal 
 of violent emotions!" 
 
 He spoke with intention, for he knew Lu- 
 cienne's theories on the subject. He was not a 
 specially kind-hearted man, but he felt really 
 sorry for the girl's distress, and wished to give 
 her time to recover. 
 
 With a furious gesture the actress swept 
 aside his suggestions. 
 
 "They have always said that of my old friend 
 Coquelin, but I have never believed it. How 
 can one remain calm while portraying violent 
 emotions? It's impossible. If you want to make 
 people feel anything, you must feel it yourself 
 and intensely. For the moment you must actually
 
 WHAT IS LOVE? 19 
 
 be the character. You must have lived as she 
 has lived loved as she has loved suffered as 
 she has suffered. You must have lived with her 
 and for her, for many days and nights. You 
 must have followed her from childhood been 
 with her when first the dawn of womanhood 
 broke on her horizon. If her impulses are bad, 
 yours for the moment must be bad, and the 
 reverse. You must enter into the character and 
 dwell there, unless you want to be merely a clev- 
 er girl, or woman, repeating words which have 
 no real meaning. On the stage I am not Lu- 
 cienne Gerome. I am Adrienne or Phedre, or 
 Marguerite Gautier or Francesca da Rimini. 
 Each in turn, but each in body and soul and in- 
 telligence. For the actress who wishes to be 
 worthy of her profession there are no half meas- 
 ures no mealy-mouthed panderings to 'nice 
 ideas' and on dlt. For a sensitive woman it is a 
 terrible profession the path to success is rugged 
 and strewn with thorns, but it must be pursued 
 relentlessly. You must give yourself up to your 
 art entirely using every experience as a means 
 by which you can further your ends measuring 
 the joy of every kiss, so that you may be able 
 to give back that joy to your public. A horrible 
 life, if you will, but glorious, for it forces one to 
 live every second of one's existence. It forces a 
 woman to wear out, instead of sitting down un-
 
 20 WHAT IS LOVE? 
 
 der the touch of rust. A cruel, cruel life! be- 
 cause people who pay to be entertained are al- 
 ways at heart cruel. They watch for every little 
 slip every weak moment every shadow of a 
 wrinkle on a once smooth face. They watch and 
 they laugh. They set up an idol, and for a time 
 they worship it, but in a single moment they 
 will ruthlessly pull it down and stamp upon 
 it: My God how cruel people are at times ! 
 I was present when Jeanne Haraucourt played 
 Adrienne Lecouvreur for the last time I had 
 promised to have supper with her after the play. 
 She had always been so lovely ! so delicious ! 
 with her eyes of a frightened fawn and her pale 
 gold hair that looked like a veil of silver. That 
 night she was ill. Maurice du Gue had deserted 
 her. She was no longer young. I shall never 
 forget that scene. She could hardly speak; 
 de Gue was in a loge with the girl he had just 
 married; Jeanne broke down in the last act and 
 threw out her arms towards him. And they 
 laughed! She was ill worn faded. If she 
 had looked young and lovely at that moment, de 
 Gue would probably have returned to her all 
 the world would have found the incident ro- 
 mantic and delightful. But the lights were 
 crude too naked she looked old and the 
 people laughed!" 
 
 Lucienne's voice vibrated harshly. She was
 
 WHAT IS LOVE? 21 
 
 pale as death. Her great dark eyes flashed fire. 
 
 Isola watched her as one might watch the 
 movements of a god. 
 
 "And then ?" she said breathlessly. "And 
 
 then ?" 
 
 Rivaud broke in suddenly, but his words were 
 unheeded. The actress drew herself up proudly 
 and faced the trembling girl. 
 
 "And then?" she repeated. "Then the 
 Morgue ! That night Jeanne disappeared. We 
 waited for her at her house in the Boulevard 
 Malesherbes for hours, we sent to look for her 
 in all directions; but she never came. Four 
 days later she was lying on a slab of marble in 
 the Morgue. They recognized her because of 
 her rings. The stones in the bed of the Seine 
 had dealt with her face." 
 
 Isola uttered a terrified cry. She covered her 
 face in her hands. She was shaken with violent 
 sobs. Rivaud shrugged his shoulders and 
 turned to leave the room, but Lucienne called 
 him imperiously. 
 
 "You think I have been cruel. No ! I have 
 been kind. The life of an actress on our French 
 stage is necessarily a stormy one. It is a long 
 battle against the traditions and social laws 
 which are supposed to environ women. It is a 
 glorious life, but a very hard one for une sen- 
 sitive. Isola believes that she wishes to become
 
 22 WHAT IS LOVE? 
 
 an actress. It is necessary that she should real- 
 ize something of what an actress's life really 
 means. She is fascinated by the cloud of glory 
 which hovers over a favorite artist's head it 
 is necessary that she should realize the price 
 which has to be paid for that glory. She is heav- 
 ily handicapped at the very start by her family 
 and her stereotyped education. / had no fam- 
 ily, and what education I have I secured for my- 
 self, in my own way. I seem cruel now, but one 
 day she will realize that naked cruelty is some- 
 times better than carefully dressed kindness." 
 
 She threw herself back on the divan and 
 pressed her head against the cushions. A moment 
 later her eyes closed and her sinuous body became 
 absolutely motionless. 
 
 Rivaud looked at her. He hesitated; then he 
 softly caught Isola's hand and drew her from 
 the room.
 
 CHAPTER II 
 
 GUY DE VESIAN was a poet of the 
 so-called decadent school. He had an 
 amazing command of words rich, mellow, sul- 
 try words that haunted the imagination and crept 
 cunningly into the winding paths which led to 
 the soul. 
 
 Words were his slaves. With relentless in- 
 tention he flung them together in order that 
 they, in sudden fury, might tear and destroy 
 the ideals of yesterday. More modern than all 
 the other modernists, he gloried in setting light 
 to a holocaust of tender dreams. He was the 
 acknowledged apostle of realities. 
 
 "Fill every second of your life with vivid 
 emotion. Snatch joy and intoxicating excite- 
 ment from the grudging hands of the passing 
 hours. Live ! No matter what the consequences 
 may be. Live for the hour, for the moment." 
 
 This was the gospel he lived rather than 
 preached, but which, because of the glamor 
 which surrounded him, carried poison into count- 
 less lives. 
 
 He was not a handsome man, but he had 
 charm. Of medium height, he had a slender, 
 well-knit figure, and extraordinarily small hands 
 23
 
 24 WHAT IS LOVE? 
 
 and feet. He resembled, rather strikingly, a 
 certain portrait of Vandyke, which at one time 
 formed part of the Wallace collection. A thin, 
 oval face, with a well-shaped nose and long 
 chin, covered with a pointed beard. His mouth 
 attracted attention because it was like the mouth 
 of a beautiful woman, but his eyes were the com- 
 pelling feature of his face, blue-grey in color, 
 large, vivid, searching. The eyes of an angel 
 or of a devil so his mother said. And in truth 
 there was something of the angel in de Vesian's 
 character, just as there was much of the devil. 
 He was perfectly charming to those who served 
 him. He was an ideal son to a particularly 
 un-ideal mother. He was gay, generous, caress- 
 ing, witty each in turn and each quite natu- 
 rally. In his whole personality there was not an 
 ounce of "pose." He was frankly himself a 
 born egoist, an iconoclast, a wilful destroyer of 
 
 conventions. 
 
 ***** 
 
 The Villa Floralia was one of the landmarks 
 of artistic Paris. It was situated in the heart of 
 Neuilly, hidden away in a quiet corner and 
 framed by a luxuriant garden. The house itself 
 was built in the Italian style : long and low, with 
 two great wings spreading out from a central 
 hall. 
 
 Madame de Vesian, who had been an Aus-
 
 WHAT IS LOVE? 25 
 
 trian Comtesse before her marriage, occupied 
 one wing, her son occupied the other. They met 
 at times, sometimes not for weeks together, in 
 the vast central hall which opened on a marble 
 loggia. The two were excellent friends, but 
 their lives rarely touched each other. The Com- 
 tesse was a morphinomane of a peculiar type. 
 She never sought to hide her cherished vice, 
 rather did she glory in it. She was a genuine 
 connoisseur in morphia. With fiendish dexterity 
 she experimented with it, never injecting too 
 much at one time, always securing for herself 
 future moments of exquisite blen-etre. A very 
 famous French physician, who had been an in- 
 timate friend of Henri de Vesian homme du 
 monde, dramatist, farceur, and profligate had 
 told her that she was the incarnation of a mor- 
 phia-fiend. The idea amused her vastly. She 
 repeated the mot far and near. 
 
 When Guy de Vesian entertained, Tout Paris 
 flocked to the Villa Floralia. He had the luxu- 
 riant imagination of the author of "Satyricon" 
 allied to that distinguished critic's eclectic taste. 
 Rich enough to gratify his most extravagant 
 fancies, he showed his world that he understood 
 the inner meaning of aestheticism. His recep- 
 tion-rooms were models of restrained magnifi- 
 cence, lo the center hall a flame of pomegran-
 
 26 WHAT IS LOVE? 
 
 ates and oleanders was thrown against ivory 
 walls. The panels had been painted by a young 
 genius, whose early death lay at de Vesian's 
 door: for it was he who had first instilled into 
 an ill-balanced, fervid imagination the doctrine 
 that a life of pleasure is the only life worth 
 living. 
 
 In the hall the mosaic floor was strewn with 
 prayer-rugs of faded tints, which crept together 
 and formed a delicious whole. There were 
 divans covered with eastern brocades and little 
 coffee-tables of carved ebony inset with silver 
 and with many of those deep-blue turquoises 
 which the Indians and Persians sell in the streets 
 of Cairo. A great cool hall, lighted by curious 
 hanging-lamps veiled in semi-transparent quartz 
 globes, which threw down a soft light like the 
 first rays of dawn palest rose and faintest blue. 
 White lilies stood in copper jars of fantastic 
 design. In the middle of the room a Steinway 
 grand in an ebony case stood alone. De Vesian 
 was an excellent musician, though he never could 
 be persuaded to sing or play outside his circle 
 
 of intimate friends. 
 
 ***** 
 
 The afternoon was a glorious one an April 
 day which had brought in its train a warm breath 
 of summer. The poet was sitting on the broad 
 terrace which ran in front of the villa. He was
 
 WHAT IS LOVE? 27 
 
 alone. A little tea-service of delicate porcelain 
 stood on a table by his side. His favorite dog, 
 a great white borzoi, sniffed at his hand as he 
 leaned forward and put a thin slice of lemon into 
 a cup. As he looked down at the dog his face 
 seemed almost beautiful because of the kindliness 
 of its expression. 
 
 The garden was filled with delicious calm. 
 One forgot that fevered, restless Paris lay almost 
 at its gates. 
 
 It was a charmed spot, which had been ca- 
 ressed by the hand of nature and cherished by 
 refined art. It had been de Vesian's fancy to 
 fashion his garden in Roman style. To the left, 
 removed from the house, there was a mysterious 
 ilex grove. Stone-pines gave an air of magnifi- 
 cence to the entrance of a casino which had been 
 built on the model of the casino in the Borghese 
 gardens. There were many more foliage plants 
 and trees than flowers, but the broad terrace was 
 framed in rose-trees which by and by would waft 
 perfume into the open windows of the cool 
 rooms. 
 
 De Vesian had a passion for violets. All round 
 the balustrade of the terrace, on the inner side, 
 there was a narrow bed carpeted with modest 
 green leaves. It was the pleasure-ground of the 
 deep purple violet which bears the name of 
 Czar.
 
 28 WHAT IS LOVE? 
 
 A servant crossed the terrace bearing a letter. 
 
 De Vesian took it and glanced at the intricate 
 silver monogram on the thick cream paper. He 
 smiled and laid the letter down, unopened. 
 Three years ago even two, it would have given 
 him a thrill. But now? 
 
 He guessed the contents. Without breaking 
 the silver seal he seemed to see the burning words 
 of passionate love protestations perhaps re- 
 proaches. 
 
 With something of impatience he pulled his 
 Panama hat down over his eyes and folded his 
 arms. She was beautiful fascinating clever 
 to the point of genius "the greatest actress of 
 her century." 
 
 He had met her, three years before, in Rome, 
 at mid-summer, when the crowd of forestieri that 
 invaded the Eternal City in winter had fled. 
 They had stayed together at the house of an 
 eccentric painter whose wife was an intimate 
 friend of the poet's mother. It had been a 
 month of subtle charm. 
 
 Lucienne Gerome had eluded him, puzzled 
 him, roused his curiosity and then had sudden- 
 ly disappeared! It had been a wonderful ad- 
 venture, palpitating with excitement; for the 
 man had been eager and the woman cunning. 
 
 Lucienne had disappeared. For months the
 
 WHAT IS LOVE"? 29 
 
 pursuer was baffled keenly interested pas- 
 sionately determined. 
 
 Then, quite suddenly, they met again: and 
 within the space of a single week their roles had 
 been exchanged. The woman had become vehe- 
 ment, impatient, terribly eager. She was in 
 deadly earnest at last. She forgot to be wise. 
 
 She who had so often used Love as a means 
 for studying fresh emotions had become the slave 
 of Love. Guy de Vesian became master of her 
 life. She was obsessed. 
 
 The memory of those early days came back to 
 him as he lay against the cushions of his lounge 
 chair. In a way they had been very sweet ; but, 
 almost from the first, they had been disappoint- 
 ing. He had in him a man's inherent love of the 
 chase. The role of ardent pursuer was his by 
 right, and by choice. The idea that he was be- 
 ing pursued stifled him. He had been bitterly 
 disappointed. The lovely woman whose name 
 was famous all over Europe was exaggeratedly 
 clever but she was not subtle. 
 
 When she loved, seriously, she became ordi- 
 nary : a woman who craved to reveal herself, to 
 throw with generous hands all that was best in 
 her at the feet of her idol. She was beautiful, 
 fascinating, but her passionate warmth had the 
 effect of freezing the blood in de Vesian's veins.
 
 30 WHAT IS LOVE? 
 
 He had pictured something so different: an 
 ardent, mad pursuit; a passionate appeal; the 
 delicious moment of possible yielding; the kiss 
 but half realized. 
 
 The waiting hoping longing. A final re- 
 fusal perhaps? And then a deathless mem- 
 ory! 
 
 He sighed. His delicate hand, exquisitely 
 manicured as the hand of a woman, sought the 
 borzoi's head. He fondled it. Then he drank 
 some tea and again leaned back. His luminous 
 eyes wandered over the sun-lit gardens. 
 
 Close by a shadowy glade, where golden jon- 
 quils flourished, there was a fountain which 
 seemed to breathe the spirit of the Renaissance. 
 Song and sparkle! A gracious youth, rising 
 from a basin of white marble, holding up a 
 bronze dolphin, from whose mouth flowed a sil- 
 ver thread of glistening water. There were 
 feathery ferns lying close to the border. An 
 overhanging tree, which had drawn apart from 
 its fellows in the glade, cast shadows, softly gray, 
 on the restless ripples. An enervating calm lay 
 upon a scene which Fragonard would have 
 loved. 
 
 De Vesian's lips moved slightly. He was 
 speaking to himself, some words which had been 
 written by his friend, Georges Rodenbach :
 
 WHAT IS LOVE 4 ? 31 
 
 L'eau, pour qui souffre, est une soeur de charite, 
 Que n'a pu satisfaire aucune joie humaine, 
 Sous une guimpe et sous un froc d'obscurite. 
 Et qui se cache, triste et le sourire amene 
 Elle chante, elle dit: les doux abris que j'ai, 
 Pour ceux de qui le coeur est trop decourage: 
 Car, pour leur fievre, c'est la fraicheur d'un bon lit. 
 Et beacoup, aimantes par cet appel propice, 
 Perclus, entrent dans 1'eau comme entre a 1'hospice, 
 Puis meurent 1'eau les lave et les ensevelit, 
 Dans les courants aussi frais que de fanes toiles, 
 Et c'est enfin vraiment pour eux la Bonne Mort. 
 Cependant que le soir, autour du corps qui dort, 
 L'eau noire allume un grand catafalque d'etoiles. 
 ***** 
 
 He smiled softly. "La Bonne Mort?" "Un 
 
 grand catafalque d'etoiles?" 
 
 The smile deepened then it faded away. 
 His imagination had seized upon the "cata- 
 falque d'etoiles." It was ravaging it in frantic 
 desire to learn its most subtle secrets. 
 
 The white dog leaned close to his knee and 
 licked his hand. In an instant the poet's vision 
 of mysterious night vanished. The perfume 
 of some pale roses which stood on the table in 
 a crystal vase assailed his senses. His nostrils 
 distended and quivered. A joyous light danced 
 into his eyes. It was Spring ! Little buds, filled 
 with unrealized ambitions, were beating against 
 the tender green walls that confined them. Far
 
 32 WHAT IS LOVE? 
 
 down in the crisp brown earth there was cease- 
 less movement. It was Spring ! 
 
 It seemed to him that if indeed there were a 
 God, other than mysterious Nature, the eternal 
 prayer of human souls ought to be "Give us 
 forever and forever the season of budding leaf 
 of breaking blossom ! Make the season of 
 Spring eternal ! Printemps et Le Neant. Noth- 
 ing between!" 
 
 His pulses throbbed. At that instant his 
 whole being was filled with the Spirit of Spring 
 the perfumed petals of a rose, whispering as 
 they unfolded, slowly; the white imagination of 
 a young girl almost a child; a lovely female 
 thing who was still marvelling at the rose-tinted 
 veil of knowledge which was beginning to wind 
 itself about her awakening senses; the divine 
 flood of conscious red creeping into unkissed 
 cheeks; lips parted in an expectation that was 
 more than half fear ! 
 
 Isola Bering !- 
 
 How delicious she was! How adorable in 
 her veil of ignorance and delicious youth! A 
 Niphetos bud with warm, white skin and 
 scented breath. A gazelle with liquid, fright- 
 ened eyes. An exquisite being who, in her own 
 sweet person, embodied Spring !
 
 WHAT IS LOVE? 33 
 
 His imagination, ever restless, crossed swords 
 with an unwelcome memory: only the memory 
 of a flower, and a beautiful one a black iris 
 which had rested on his writing-table the day 
 before. It had fascinated him. Its curved 
 petals had seemed to hold a secret in their close 
 embrace. Where the exquisitely transparent 
 envelope broke into ripples he had been made 
 to realize that within, hidden from sight, there 
 was some mystery clad in somber velvet. The 
 thought of this mystery had taken possession of 
 him ! Hour by hour he had watched the quiv- 
 ering petals. Night had fallen. He had rested 
 his head on his arms and had slept dreamed. 
 
 At dawn the awakening had come. 
 
 The petals had fallen back. The secret lay 
 revealed. And the wonderful mystery clad in 
 somber velvet? The faint perfume that had 
 enervated his senses ? Gone ! Forever ! 
 
 He remembered his childish disappointment. 
 
 He remembered that in a moment of ungov- 
 ernable rage he had set his fcTot upon the with- 
 ered flower, and had ground it against the floor 
 with his heel. 
 
 A moment of folly? Of unreasonable mad- 
 ness? Yes! But a moment pregnant with 
 
 meaning. 
 
 ***** 
 
 A servant again crossed the terrace, this time
 
 34 WHAT IS LOVE? 
 
 to announce his mother. De Vesian rose and 
 held out his hands. He was smiling gaily. His 
 eyes were full of affection and tenderness. 
 Madame de Vesian walked towards him brisk- 
 ly. She was an extraordinary-looking woman. 
 She wore a pale gold transformation so far as 
 she was personally concerned any one might have 
 called it a wig without giving offence and there 
 was a thick coating of white powder on her 
 unnaturally pink skin. Her face looked puffy; 
 no other word would describe it. Her large, 
 full eyes were grey-blue like those of her son, 
 but in her case the expression was actively in- 
 solent. Neither tall nor short, she had a com- 
 manding presence, and she habitually dressed 
 like a young girl, in flowing laces and muslins. 
 At that moment she was wearing a wide- 
 brimmed Leghorn hat, weighed down with 
 roses, and its black velvet strings were loosely 
 tied under her chin. She was a woman who 
 might, judging from her appearance, have been 
 any age: a dissolute youngish woman, a well- 
 preserved grandmother. As a matter of fact 
 she was neither. In the Almanach de Gotha 
 her age was plainly stated sixty-two. At the 
 age of twenty-three she had eloped, to her par- 
 ents' eternal disgust, with Henri de Vesian, who 
 was then one of the most admired and hated 
 men in Paris. The ill-matched pair had lived
 
 WHAT IS LOVE? 35 
 
 together on and off. When, finally, as the re- 
 sult of a dispute in a club card-room, the hus- 
 band had gone out with Prince Platoff, and had 
 received a sword-thrust through the right lung, 
 the widow had made no pretence of sorrow. She 
 had attended the funeral in a white satin mantle 
 and, assisted by her little son, had carpeted the 
 grave with blood-red roses. Then the whole affair 
 had passed out of her mind. An egoist of ego- 
 ists, she really cared for her son. Her affection 
 for him had not the power to influence her life, 
 or her actions; nevertheless it was genuine 
 enough. She liked Guy ! And she liked exper- 
 imenting with morphia ! Also she liked per- 
 haps because of inherited character, perhaps 
 because of impulses driven in by the fatal needle 
 to eat into pliant natures as the moth eats into 
 ermine. She was essentially what the Parisians 
 call "une mechante." 
 
 De Vesian raised her claw-like hands to his 
 lips first one and then the other. 
 
 "This is charming," he murmured softly. 
 "I'm afraid the tea is cold, but in a mo- 
 ment " 
 
 His mother glanced contemptuously at the 
 dainty service in chased silver and porcelain. 
 
 "I loathe it. I met Gabrielle Borizoff in the 
 Bois this morning. That pretty Englishwoman
 
 36 WHAT IS LOVE? 
 
 was with her Madame Underwood. The 
 Princess said she particularly wished to see you 
 to-morrow afternoon it's her day." 
 
 De Vesian nodded and smiled. He knew very 
 well that his mother had not paid him a visit for 
 the purpose of conveying a vague invitation. He 
 patted the white dog's head and waited. A sig- 
 nificant silence followed. Madame de Vesian's 
 malicious eyes wandered round the terrace. At 
 last she spoke. 
 
 "That boy, Robin Underwood, isn't quite a 
 fool. He's ultra-English in more ways than 
 one. I don't often interfere in your affairs, but 
 I shouldn't like to see you brought home as your 
 father was." 
 
 The poet smiled. 
 
 "A duel? You think that 'ultra-English'?" 
 
 "No! But these Englishmen can stand up 
 for their own when they're pushed too far." 
 
 " Their own' ! " 
 
 The smile deepened into laughter. 
 
 The woman leaned back in her rocking-chair 
 and swayed to and fro. 
 
 "Not yet perhaps. But he has made up his 
 mind, and he comes of a bull-dog race. It's not 
 my affair, but I suggest that you should ask 
 yourself if it's quite worth while. The girl is 
 attractive and thoroughly well-bred no blanch- 
 isseuse de fin or smirking concierge in her family,
 
 WHAT IS LOVE ? 37 
 
 but I ask myself, a little, is it worth while? The 
 boy hates me, and of course you, already. He 
 was as rude as a well-mannered young English- 
 man could allow himself to be this morning. I 
 don't resent his rudeness on the contrary I 
 rather like it. But I see a storm brewing, a 
 serious storm, and I ask myself is it worth 
 while?" 
 
 De Vesian stared at his mother in genuine 
 amazement. Never in all his life had he heard 
 her speak so seriously. It was not alone her 
 words it was her tone. She seemed, for the 
 moment, like a stranger. 
 
 Without ceasing to sway backwards and for- 
 wards the Comtesse watched his face. A slow, 
 malicious smile crept across her loose mouth. 
 
 "Old age creeping on," she said quietly. "I've 
 made the pied de nez at the duties of a mother 
 for a good many years, and now that facetious 
 fiend we call Nature is taking a revenge. You 
 thrust yourself into my dreams last night. There 
 was a ball in your throat and blood. It upset 
 me. I'm not afraid of Lucienne Gerome's 
 theatrical storms, though you will have to listen 
 to those, of course, but something tells me you 
 had better leave that girl alone. Something I 
 don't know what " 
 
 With a sudden movement she stood up and 
 smoothed out her crumpled laces. The ex-
 
 38 WHAT IS LOVE ? 
 
 pression on her face was changed. The mo- 
 mentary humanity had given place to cynical 
 indifference. 
 
 "C'est mon metier d'etre poseuse encore une 
 fois, mon metier." 
 
 Without another word she turned and left the 
 terrace. 
 
 De Vesian stood and watched the retreating 
 figure until it disappeared through an open 
 French window. Then he sank back in his chair 
 and closed his eyes, as if courting sleep.
 
 CHAPTER III 
 
 TSOLA never knew exactly how she got back 
 1 to her aunt's flat in the Rue de Douai after 
 the scene in Lucienne Gerome's dressing-room. 
 She vaguely remembered that the manager 
 had drawn her into his den, and tried, really 
 very gently, to rub in the lesson. She remem- 
 bered how she had struggled against an over- 
 powering desire to break into tears, and how at 
 last Rivaud had put her into his own automobile 
 and sent her home. 
 
 It seemed like a dreadful nightmare. She 
 was still under its spell though more than two 
 hours had elapsed since she left the theater 
 though she was safe in her own little room, with 
 locked door and the plea of a "violent head- 
 ache" hastily written on a scrap of paper and 
 flung on her aunt's writing-table. 
 
 She was excited, despairing, miserable. 
 
 She looked like a disconsolate child as she lay, 
 huddled up, on a low couch by an open window. 
 Twilight shadows were gathering about her. 
 Her white wrapper stood out against a length 
 of Japanese embroidery in which creamy storks 
 swept across a sea of blue and green. She gave 
 
 3?
 
 40 WHAT IS LOVE? 
 
 a momentary impression of Pavlova in the death- 
 tableau of Saint-Saens' "Le Cygne." 
 
 For a long time she lay motionless. She had 
 cried passionately just at first, but now the tears 
 had vanished; even the sobs had grown silent, 
 except at long intervals. She was terribly dis- 
 appointed frightened. Her dreams had been 
 exquisite. The sudden awakening was appall- 
 ing. She was a failure ! 
 
 She had had her chance a chance of a life- 
 time. And she had proved herself unworthy. 
 "Madame Lucienne," her idol, was disgusted 
 with her. "Monsieur Jules" had tried hard to 
 be kind, but she had seen the twinkle of amused 
 pity in his eyes. 
 
 It was all finished! 
 
 With a quick movement, in which her youth 
 betrayed itself, she got up and crossed the room 
 to her little white bed. 
 
 Close by it, standing alone on a table, was a 
 large photograph of a man of Miles Bering, 
 her father. 
 
 She caught it up and returned to the couch. 
 Holding the broad silver frame in her two hands, 
 she leaned forward and stared at the pictured 
 eyes dark, caressing, mysterious as her own. 
 
 She adored him, that wonderful father whose 
 name was sacred in the world of art. She
 
 WHAT IS LOVE? 41 
 
 early taken him for guide and close friend, in 
 spirit. In the flesh she had never seen him, for 
 he had died when she was a tiny baby. 
 
 Hot tears welled up again as she silently 
 questioned the pictured face. He had conquered 
 his world! He had early turned his steps into 
 the path she knew it had been a narrow one 
 which led to fame. He had never wavered ! 
 
 She knew the story of her father's life in every 
 smallest detail. She had learned it from her 
 Aunt Jessica this with no little difficulty, for 
 Jessica Dering could not bear to speak of one 
 who had been the center of her world and who 
 was now dead. She had learned it from enthusi- 
 astic friends and admirers. She had stood before 
 his famous portrait of the Pope, which had been 
 given a place of honor in the Vatican. She had 
 in her own possession a marvellous portrait of 
 her lovely mother, which he had painted in 
 Japan whilst on his honeymoon. This portrait 
 was hanging in her bedroom. From where she 
 sat she could recognize the glory of love and 
 sunshine on her mother's exquisite face. 
 
 Strangely enough, she never thought of 
 asking questions of this portrait. She realized 
 its beauty and charm. She gloried in the knowl- 
 edge that her mother had been one of the love- 
 liest of women, but she did not feel that she 
 knew her. Her friend of friends was her father !
 
 42 WHAT IS LOVE? 
 
 ***** 
 
 The moments crept past and still the girl 
 silently questioned the man's dark eyes. In what 
 had she done wrong? Where had been the 
 fault ? What would he have said if he had been 
 alive? For months her life had seemed like a 
 delicious dream. Her chance had come. She 
 was actually on the stage the charmed stage of 
 a famous Paris theater. She had been singled 
 out for special notice by the greatest actress of 
 the century. Daily, hourly, she had had an 
 opportunity of watching that wonderful woman 
 of speaking to her of acting with her! It 
 seemed too splendid to be true, and yet it was 
 true. Her great chance had come and she had 
 failed to seize it. She pressed the pictured face 
 against her lips. "Help me " she mur- 
 mured. "Father help me." 
 
 He was her idol her saint. 
 
 It seemed absolutely natural to talk to him, 
 even to pray to him. She was convinced that he 
 was alive, somewhere that he had the power, 
 and surely the will, to help his lonely little girl. 
 It was her great secret, this intimate friendship 
 with her dead father. She had never spoken of 
 it to any one except once, for a moment, to 
 Robin Underwood. The young Englishman's 
 pride in his mother, his openly expressed affec- 
 tion, had unlocked, for an instant, the doors of
 
 WHAT IS LOVE? 43 
 
 her heart. She remembered how he had looked 
 at that moment his dark blue eyes flashing 
 with fervid admiration and one of his strong 
 brown hands touching, for a second, one of hers. 
 
 "I say how splendid!" 
 
 He had spoken like the boy that he was, but 
 an impression of strength had remained with her 
 something of the same strength that held out 
 mysterious hands to her when she communed 
 with her father's portrait. 
 
 Very reverently she laid the picture down on 
 the couch by her side. She sat up straight. 
 Her hands were tightly clasped on her knees. 
 She was trying to review the past few months 
 the past few years her mad desire to become 
 an actress : a desire which had devoured her ever 
 since the memorable day when she had been 
 taken to see Sarah Bernhardt play Adrienne 
 Lecouvreur. 
 
 That day had been the turning-point of her 
 life. 
 
 How well she remembered it! Some artist 
 friends of her father had thought to give the 
 lonely child a treat. They had smuggled her 
 into a box at a Bernhardt matinee ! 
 
 It had all been meant in kindness, but Isola 
 never forgot her aunt's displeasure, nor her own 
 awakening ambitions.
 
 44 WHAT IS LOVE? 
 
 After that eventful matinee there had fol- 
 lowed months of unrest. 
 
 Her aunt was her guardian. Isola owed her 
 much everything, almost. But between the 
 two there was no real sympathy. 
 
 There had been terrible scenes; for the girl 
 was headstrong and the aunt, for a time, inflex- 
 ible. Then had come a final outbreak. Isola 
 had, alone, sought out Jules Rivaud. She had 
 discovered, from one of the same artist friends 
 who had taken her to see Bernhardt, that the 
 manager was an ardent admirer of her father's 
 paintings. She had sought him out: had, in- 
 coherently, laid bare her ambitious dreams. And 
 Rivaud had been interested. The girl was love- 
 ly! Probably clever! It might be worth 
 while ! 
 
 All unknown to her aunt she had been taken to 
 Lucienne Gerome's dressing-room she had been 
 asked to recite "something!" What a moment 
 of moments ! 
 
 Even now, in her hour of despair, she lived it 
 over again ! 
 
 Sarah Bernhardt had been her mascot. And 
 because she had heard that the famous actress 
 had recited a hackneyed old fable when she 
 appeared before the authorities of the Con- 
 servatoire, she, too, stood up and recited the 
 same fable.
 
 WHAT IS LOVE? 45 
 
 Deux pigeons s'aimaient d'amour tendre, 
 L'un d'eux s'ennuyant. etc., etc. 
 
 And she had made a success ! 
 
 Lucienne Gerome had embraced her warmly, 
 had refused to believe that she had no French 
 blood in her veins. Jules Rivaud had loudly 
 asserted that he had never in his life heard a 
 foreigner speak French with such a perfect 
 accent. 
 
 It had been a glorious moment! 
 
 And a little later her cup of happiness had 
 overflowed when the poet, Guy de Vesian, had 
 entered the room and when Madame Gerome 
 had commanded her to recite again. That time, 
 prompted by a childish wish to do something 
 audacious, she seated herself at the piano and 
 spoke, rather than sang, the "Colloque Sentimen- 
 tal" of Paul Verlaine, with the Debussy music. 
 
 Dans le vieux pare solitaire et glace 
 
 Deux formes ont tout a 1'heure passe. 
 
 Leurs yeux sont morts et leurs levres sont molles, 
 
 Et Ton entend a peine leurs paroles. 
 
 Dans le vieux pare solitaire et glace 
 
 Deux spectres ont evoque le passe. 
 
 Te souvient-il de notre extase ancienne? 
 Pourquoi voulez-vous done qu'il m'en souvienne? 
 Ton coeur bat-il toujours a mon seul nom? 
 Toujours vois-tu mon ame en reve? Non.
 
 46 WHAT IS LOVE? 
 
 Ah ! Les beaux jours de bonheur indicible 
 Ou nous joignions nos bouches! C'est possible. 
 Qu'il etait bleu, le ciel, et grand 1'espoir! 
 L'espoir a fui, vaincu, vers le ciel noir. 
 
 Tels ils marchaient dans les avoines folles, 
 Et la nuit seule entendit leurs paroles. 
 
 It had been a veritable triumph! 
 
 Every one had applauded with a vehemence 
 that could not be mistaken. 
 
 Lucienne Gerome, with characteristic impul- 
 siveness, had given her a place in her company. 
 Rivaud had warmly congratulated her. 
 
 Only the poet had remained silent. 
 
 And yet, when Isola thought over that en- 
 chanted scene, later on, the expression of de 
 Vesian's eyes seemed to have been the greatest 
 compliment of all. 
 
 He had tapped his hands together softly, as in 
 duty bound, but what he had thought had been 
 silently expressed to the girl alone. 
 
 Far up in the heights of Montmartre there 
 stands a majestic cupola which is shaped in 
 gracious curves and which glistens like pale 
 silver under the touch of ardent sun or mystic 
 moon. 
 
 Within its swelling dome rests the largest bell 
 in France the giant "Savoyarde" which came
 
 WHAT IS LOVE? 47 
 
 as a votive offering from the simple folk of 
 Savoy. Some one has spoken of the Church of 
 the Sacre Coeur as "a star in the forehead of 
 Paris," but it is more than that. It is the crown 
 of the famous Fille de Lumiere. 
 
 From the Sacre Coeur came the sound of the 
 Angelus bell. 
 
 Isola left the low couch and walked slowly to 
 the window. 
 
 She was thinking furiously. 
 
 Failure or success ? Which was it to be ? 
 
 Did the answer to this question rest with her 
 intelligence ? 
 
 In certain roles she could succeed. Of that 
 she felt certain. 
 
 She dared to believe that she could play 
 Juliet! In her dreams she had found herself 
 speaking the burning words of Adrienne Le- 
 couvreur and understanding them. The life- 
 story of that famous actress fascinated her: her 
 mad passion for Maurice de Saxe her strength 
 her weakness her tragic death. 
 
 She had seen Lucienne Gerome play Adrienne 
 many times. Rivaud and de Vesian had re- 
 written the play for her. In the last act she 
 spoke the actual words which had been spoken 
 by Adrienne as the hand of death laid a veil on 
 her eyes "There is my world, my hope yes,
 
 48 WHAT IS LOVE? 
 
 and my God." And she had spoken of Maurice 
 de Saxe. She had spoken in the presence of a 
 priest in answer to his frantic command that 
 she should "repent." Isola who had been ed- 
 ucated in a convent knew that last heart-cry to 
 be impious, but it was so exquisitely human. 
 She understood it! Understood it as she could 
 never, so she feared, understand the inner work- 
 ings of "Madeleine Delorme's" nature. 
 
 She leaned her hot face against the window- 
 sill and looked out. 
 
 It was a dreary old street the Rue de Douai. 
 She would have hated it but for its intimate 
 associations with her father. 
 
 Her ardent nature craved for color and lux- 
 ury and brilliant surroundings. She wanted to 
 live not merely to exist, peacefully like 
 "Aunt Jessica!" 
 
 And then, suddenly, her thoughts flowed back 
 to the days when she had taken a desperate 
 stand, when she had openly defied her aunt's au- 
 thority, when she had declared her intention of 
 adopting the stage as a profession come what 
 might. It had been a terrible struggle. Miss 
 Bering had tried to influence her niece by every 
 means in her power. She had been amazed 
 disgusted really angry; and then frigid. She 
 had not known where to turn for help that 
 poor, quiet little woman whose well of happi-
 
 WHAT IS LOVE? 49 
 
 ness had suddenly dried up, years before, when 
 the news of a certain awful accident had reached 
 Rome. She had adored her brother. She had 
 always, in her heart, disliked, almost hated, his 
 wife. And now their only daughter ! Left in 
 her care absolutely! 
 
 It is quite possible that Jessica Bering might 
 have lost her reason in those days of wild un- 
 certainty if an old friend, one who had known 
 the painter, had not forced her confidence and 
 tendered advice. 
 
 "Let her have plenty of rope," this friend had 
 said, with something of a smile. "Isola is at 
 heart a good little girl. Let her have plenty of 
 rope she won't hang herself with it, in the 
 end." 
 
 And Jessica, after many dark days, had taken 
 the advice. She had given her niece permission 
 to study for the stage ; she had even had one or 
 two interviews with Jules Rivaud on the sub- 
 ject. She was desperately unhappy about the 
 whole affair, but she tried to believe that her 
 worldly-wise adviser had been right. That "in 
 the end" all would be well. 
 
 Isola was still peering out into the shadows 
 that were gathering in the dull old street. 
 
 It was situated in the heart of Montmartre. 
 In its own way it was famous. Poets, painters,
 
 50 WHAT IS LOVE? 
 
 and hewers of stone had lived, sometimes 
 starved, in the tall houses which closed it in on 
 either side. Dreamers and great workers had 
 crushed the pavements with their feet and had 
 passed nervous hands over the balustrades of 
 stairs which led to u ^^ me -etage Ateliers." 
 
 It was a dreary street, but her father had 
 lived there. 
 
 In that old house, close to the Julian Atelier, 
 the "Painter of Souls" had passed his early days. 
 And the flat was very little changed since the 
 time when that splendid old Irishman, John 
 Fitzgerald, Isola's great-uncle, had gathered the 
 cream of Bohemian Paris under his hospitable 
 roof, since the time when Carriere and Dolent 
 and Doyenbert had sat round the supper-table 
 and had learned to appreciate Limerick bacon. 
 
 It was an old house, unbeautiful in exterior 
 but comfortable. And her father had lived 
 there ! 
 
 Some one knocked softly on the door. Isola 
 hesitated. Then she crossed the room and turned 
 the key. 
 
 "Come in, Auntie," she said gently. 
 
 As Jessica Dering advanced into the room one 
 realized that the passing years had changed her 
 very little. She was still the quiet, steadfast 
 woman of soulful eyes that she had been in the
 
 WHAT IS LOVE? 51 
 
 long-ago days when she and her adored brother 
 had occupied a suite of rooms in the Via Giulia 
 in Rome those dear days when she had had 
 him all to herself, before his marriage long be- 
 fore the accident which caused his death. 
 
 Twenty-three years before she had been thirty- 
 two. Now she was fifty-five. But she was very 
 little changed. 
 
 Her figure was still fragile, her face still 
 pathetically sweet and pretty. Her deep blue 
 eyes, fringed with long, black lashes, were still 
 the mirrors of a pure and lofty soul. To the 
 ordinary observer, even to Clio Underwood, who 
 had known her so well in the old days, she 
 seemed unchanged, but it was none the less true 
 that all that had made her life worth living had 
 vanished on the day when a certain fatal tele- 
 gram had reached her in Rome; the telegram 
 which announced her brother's death. 
 
 He had been induced to visit Sicily, with an in- 
 timate friend, after the tragic duel between Life 
 and Death which had left Isola motherless. He 
 had been visiting some lonely parts of that 
 romantic country. There had been an accident 
 with a pistol. And then death! 
 
 Within a short three weeks the little baby with 
 the dark, dreamy eyes had been deprived of both 
 father and mother, and Jessica Dering had en- 
 tered into a life of ceaseless regret.
 
 52 WHAT IS LOVE? 
 
 Jessica looked round the room. How fra- 
 grant it was! Delightfully fresh! Indian silk 
 curtains in pale rose-pink, muslins and dainty 
 laces, a few cut-glass bottles on the dressing 
 table, dull silver monograms on the ivory brushes 
 and mirrors, and flowers roses everywhere! 
 
 She had tried to give her niece all the pretty 
 things that girls love ; she had tried, very hard, 
 to do her duty. 
 
 A faint smile brightened her sad face as she 
 laid a hand on the girl's shoulder. Isola's color 
 rose. She was fond of her aunt, but they had 
 never arrived at being close friends. Jessica 
 always strove to be cheerful, even gay, when with 
 the young girl, but she was conscious that a bar- 
 rier lay between them. And that barrier was 
 her own dislike for the woman who had given 
 Isola birth. She had fought hard against this 
 feeling. She had prayed to be delivered from it 
 in vain. The horror which, even at the first, 
 she had felt for Violet Hilliard never left her. 
 On the contrary it seemed to increase as the years 
 glided by. She almost hated the memory of the 
 lovely girl her brother had worshipped. 
 
 "You had a long rehearsal to-day? You are 
 tired?" Isola bent her head in assent. 
 
 "Everything is going well I hope?" 
 
 Jessica was really trying to seem interested. 
 She loathed the idea of the stage as a profession
 
 WHAT IS LOVE? 53 
 
 for her niece, but she had given an unwilling 
 consent. It was her duty to take an active 
 interest. 
 
 Isola looked up eagerly. At that moment her 
 heart was so full that she longed to confide in 
 some one. 
 
 "No horribly badly. Madame Lucienne was 
 disgusted with me and Monsieur Jules. I don't 
 know why it is, but I can't put myself my real 
 self into the part. I don't seem to feel it 
 I'm in despair." 
 
 Jessica patted the flushed cheek. She wished 
 she could find it natural to kiss her niece, but 
 caresses rarely passed between them. 
 
 "I have never read the play. I should like to 
 see it. Have you the manuscript here?" 
 
 A burning flush mounted to the girl's face. 
 She caught her breath. There was a moment of 
 painful hesitation. Then she went to a table 
 and opened a flat sack covered in dark blue 
 leather. 
 
 "I'm afraid you won't like it, Auntie. It's 
 rather a curious little piece. Quite exaggerated- 
 ly modern, I think." 
 
 She tried to speak naturally, but her voice 
 trembled. 
 
 Her aunt looked at her sharply. 
 
 "Yes? I suppose most of the plays at the
 
 54 WHAT IS LOVE? 
 
 Theatre Gerome might be called 'exaggeratedly 
 modern.' May I see it?" 
 
 She held out her hand. Isola gave her the 
 manuscript without another word. 
 
 There was silence in the pretty room. 
 
 Very quietly the girl moved about arranging 
 her things. Every now and then she glanced 
 furtively at her aunt's bent figure. She had 
 dreaded this moment. The story of the play 
 was a peculiar one : very French. But there was 
 always the chance that her aunt might not quite 
 realize its meaning. 
 
 With restless fingers Jessica Bering turned the 
 pages. As she did so a tinge of color began to 
 creep into her pale cheeks. 
 
 This play ! How insidiously horrible it was ! 
 How detestably clever! The intimate study of 
 an ultra-modern jeune fille, whose mind was as 
 corrupt as her body was fresh and beautiful; the 
 story of a girl who had whispered about vice to 
 her comrades in her convent-school, who had 
 heard their halting whispers their thoughts 
 their vague desires; the story of a girl who 
 looked like an angel but whose imagination was 
 tainted; a girl who craved for "experiences," 
 and who early determined to realize them. 
 
 A very modern French play indeed, full of 
 subtle intuition, full of insight, of cruel truth.
 
 WHAT IS LOVE ? 55 
 
 Two crimson spots settled in Miss Bering's 
 cheeks. She bent her head lower and read on 
 and on. 
 
 The inner meaning of the play began to stamp 
 itself on her brain. It was a diabolical study of 
 temperament. The still young mother loved the 
 amant who had been devoted to her for years. 
 The daughter knew nothing of real love, but she 
 craved for violent emotions. And the end? The 
 mother, in an agony of despair at finding herself 
 deserted by the man she adores, takes poison. 
 And the daughter? Already she is glorying in 
 the contemplation of future possibilities. She is 
 
 young, beautiful, untrammelled by home ties. 
 ***** 
 
 Miss Bering closed the thin volume of manu- 
 script with a passionate gesture of disgust. 
 
 "They want you to play this part? They want 
 you to represent this horrible girl, 'Madeleine 
 Belorme ?' Monsieur Rivaud is connected with 
 the production of this piece he approves of 
 it?" 
 
 "Auntie!" 
 
 Isola came to her side in a little rush. She 
 was trembling with excitement. 
 
 "Auntie! You won't make any objection 
 it's my great chance. It's one of the most won- 
 derful chances a girl ever had. Just think of it ! 
 An English girl almost without stage experi-
 
 56 WHAT IS LOVE? 
 
 ence, to play in an important piece at the Thea- 
 tre Gerome ! And with Madame Lucienne ! 
 It's simply a miracle, and if I succeed everything 
 will be easy for me everything. Of course I 
 know it's rather a dreadful piece in some ways, 
 but Gaston Lery is an idol in Paris, and he has 
 paid me an extraordinary compliment in choos- 
 ing me for the part of Madeleine. It's all so 
 wonderful that sometimes I can't realize it's 
 really true." 
 
 Her aunt stared at her in dumb horror. 
 
 The girl was breathless. Her eyes were blaz- 
 ing with excitement. A flash of gorgeous color 
 made her ivory skin look startlingly fair. She 
 was so amazingly like her dead mother that 
 Jessica found it impossible to speak. 
 
 Once more she was face to face with Violet 
 Milliard. 
 
 Once more she was in contact with a character 
 in which warring elements tore at each other 
 with relentless energy. 
 
 She shuddered slightly and closed her eyes. 
 Violent words leaped to her lips but she tried to 
 suppress them. She wished to be just that at 
 least. 
 
 As she stood before her niece she saw an 
 expression of proud impatience flash into the 
 girl's eyes. 
 
 She waited.
 
 WHAT IS LOVE? 57 
 
 A moment later Isola broke out. 
 
 "Aunt Jessica you don't understand! I think 
 you've forgotten what girls are like what they 
 think what they feel. You've lived such a 
 beautiful shut-in life, always going about doing 
 good to people, that you haven't had time to 
 realize that people are very human, that lots of 
 people don't care about doing good or even 
 being good or anything of that sort " 
 
 She was trying, with desperate eagerness, to 
 defend her position. Any one who understood 
 her would have realized, easily, that the defence 
 was an outburst of childish bravado; but to 
 Jessica Bering it seemed a deliberate declaration 
 of genuine feeling. She drew back. 
 
 "You wish me to believe that you understand 
 the character of this horrible girl? That you 
 sympathize with it that you are going to play 
 this disgusting part in public?" 
 
 "But, of course Auntie ! You wouldn't do 
 it you wouldn't spoil my chance of such a 
 splendid success? You aren't going to make any 
 objection now?" 
 
 Impulsively the girl caught the thin hands 
 and held them tightly. For a moment Miss 
 Bering stood motionless. Then, very deliber- 
 ately, she loosened the detaining fingers. 
 
 "I shall speak to an old friend, who happens 
 to be in Paris at present, about this play. Mr.
 
 58 WHAT IS LOVE ? 
 
 Leslie js a man of the world, and he knew your 
 father very well. His opinion would be valu- 
 able. So far as I am myself concerned, I should 
 not hesitate to forbid you to have anything to 
 do with such a dreadful piece. But then I am 
 prejudiced. I greatly dislike the stage as you 
 know." 
 
 "Aunt Jessica!" 
 
 Passionate indignation had brought hot tears 
 to the girl's eyes. Miss Dering took no notice 
 of them. Very quietly she folded up the type- 
 written papers and placed them on the table. 
 She turned and walked towards the door. When 
 her hand touched the handle she spoke. 
 
 "I do not wish to discuss the subject of thea- 
 ter life again. You have made it very plain 
 that you consider you have a right to carve out 
 your own career and you may be right. At 
 any rate, I have decided to give you freedom 
 so far as may be possible. But I ask you to 
 pause and consider what you are doing. I want 
 you to ask yourself, seriously, if you can bear the 
 idea of coming before the public in such a char- 
 acter, to ask yourself if you really understand 
 such a character if you really sympathize 
 with it." 
 
 There was horror in the even tones; and 
 with the horror something of disgust. Isola's 
 quick temper was roused.
 
 WHAT IS LOVE 59 
 
 "I think it's a splendid part, Aunt Jessica. I 
 don't understand it, quite, yet; but that's be- 
 cause I have had so little experience. I think 
 Madeleine Delorme is just a natural girl like 
 ever so many other girls. We're not all born 
 perfect, you know ; and we all like to be admired 
 and made much of." 
 
 She spoke violently. Burning tears were 
 standing in her eyes, but she would not let them 
 be seen. She was intensely hurt, but she would 
 not give way. She had much of her father's 
 dominant temper and very much of her mother's 
 craving for appreciation. It had been a 
 terrible day. She could not bear very much 
 more. 
 
 Miss Bering stared at her. She had grown 
 very white. She looked old and worn. 
 
 For several minutes there was silence. Then 
 the door-handle was turned decidedly. 
 
 "Perhaps you are right, Isola. I almost think 
 you are. I do not understand what Monsieur 
 Lery has called La Jeune fille de Demain, but 
 it appears that you do. I shall consult Mr. Les- 
 lie about the play that I feel to be my duty. 
 But if he and others approve of it, I shall raise 
 no objections. You have chosen your profes- 
 sion, and I suppose you must go through with 
 it, only please do not discuss theatrical matters 
 in my presence. They have no interest for me."
 
 60 WHAT IS LOVE? 
 
 She had gone before the girl could reply if 
 
 she had wished to do so. 
 
 ***** 
 
 Long after her aunt had left the room Isola 
 lay huddled up on the couch by the window. Her 
 head was buried in her arms, but she was not 
 crying. Hot tears tears of anger and of wild 
 impatience had welled up again and again, 
 only to find themselves driven back. She was in- 
 tensely proud, this little daughter of Ireland and 
 England proud and terribly sensitive. As the 
 moments glided slowly by, her tangled thoughts 
 began to stand apart, one from the other. The 
 passion of anger died away. She still bitterly 
 resented her aunt's attitude, but she began to 
 understand it. "Poor Aunt Jessica ! What 
 could she know of life?" 
 
 She sprang up and smoothed some little 
 creases from her white wrapper. Her eyes were 
 alight with fresh determination; there was a 
 glow of excitement on her soft cheeks. With 
 quick steps she crossed to the dressing-table and 
 took up a large bottle of perfume. As she 
 sprayed a little of it over her arms and neck she 
 lifted her head and sniffed daintily. The room 
 was filled with the fragrance of white roses. 
 
 Almost unconsciously she glanced across to 
 the portrait of her father. She loved this scent 
 because he had loved it. She remembered how
 
 WHAT IS LOVE 1 ? 61 
 
 her aunt had mentioned the painter's weakness 
 for one special perfume; she remembered how 
 eagerly she had demanded the name. Ever since 
 then white-rose perfume had been closely asso- 
 ciated with her father; she never dreamed of 
 using any other. 
 
 Spraying the pale green liquid on her little 
 pink palms she caught up the book of manu- 
 script and returned to the couch. She was de- 
 termined to realize the part. She must make a 
 success of it ! With passionate eagerness she 
 repeated the familiar words. Now giving them 
 one intonation now another. She stood up and 
 mingled gestures with words. She imagined 
 herself on the stage of the Theatre Gerome 
 taking part in the exciting scenes. 
 
 Her voice was deliciously mellow, a voice full 
 of promise: golden as was the voice of Bern- 
 hardt in early youth. It was this rich voice 
 which had first attracted Lucienne Gerome's at- 
 tention. 
 
 She was letter-perfect. Words subtle sen- 
 tences flowed out with absolute ease. Her 
 French accent was extraordinarily perfect. She 
 was an ideal "Madeleine Delorme" so far as 
 appearance went. 
 
 What was wanting? 
 
 Again and again she ran through the part, 
 straining every nerve in order to understand it
 
 62 WHAT IS LOVE? 
 
 to realize its possibilities. So much of it seemed 
 to her natural a lovely young girl who asked 
 ceaseless questions of life, who demanded joy 
 and color and adulation, who passionately 
 wanted to live every moment of her existence. 
 
 It seemed to Isola that she did understand 
 the character, only not as "Madame Lucienne" 
 understood it ! 
 
 Breathless, she sank back into a chair and 
 flung the book away. What had he said that 
 afternoon Monsieur Gaston Lery? 
 
 "Mademoiselle, you must try to realize the 
 difference between a feminine creature who loves 
 her lover and one who loves love !" 
 
 He had spoken so gently. His dark, fevered 
 eyes had flickered as he bent over her. For a 
 single moment he had laid a burning hand on 
 her shoulder. 
 
 "One who loves love?" 
 
 Isola repeated the words softly more than 
 once. 
 
 "One who loves love?" 
 
 She knew the dramatist had meant to make 
 her realize that a gulf lay between the two fem- 
 inine creatures he had suggested, but what was 
 the real nature of that gulf? 
 
 Try as she might she could not follow the 
 idea.
 
 WHAT IS LOVE 4 ? 63 
 
 If a woman a girl loves her lover she loves 
 love surely ? 
 
 With restless steps she paced up and down the 
 room, silent at moments, then speaking broken 
 sentences broken phrases taken from the play. 
 
 What was it she could not understand ? 
 
 It had grown dark. Rain had fallen. From 
 a lamp in the street there came yellow gleams 
 which touched the drops on the window-panes, 
 making them gleam like fire opals. In her white 
 robe the girl looked strangely unreal, silhouetted 
 against the mysterious shadows that filled the 
 room. 
 
 She crossed to the corner where her bed 
 stood and turned on the electric lamp that hung 
 over it. Her eyes rested momentarily on a 
 curiously fashioned silver vase filled with white 
 roses. She smiled as she took it in her hand. 
 Robin Underwood had given it to her on her 
 birthday. 
 
 Robin Underwood! 
 
 The smile deepened as her thoughts rested 
 with the English boy who had fallen in love 
 with her "at first sight" ! who had asked her 
 with passionate eagerness to marry him when 
 they had only known each other three weeks! 
 
 He was so charming in many ways, full of 
 enthusiasms, perfectly groomed, entirely given
 
 64 WHAT IS LOVE? 
 
 over to the practice of making flattering 
 speeches, and of surrounding his women-folk 
 with delightful little attentions. 
 
 He was charming. But to marry him ! 
 
 Isola threw back her dainty head and gave 
 the silver vase a mischievous flip with the tips 
 of her fingers. 
 
 No ! She was married to her Art. 
 
 She whispered the words more than once, and 
 they seemed imbued with mysterious meaning. 
 Wedded to Art ! 
 
 She raised one of the white roses to her face 
 and inhaled its subtle sweetness. A delicious, 
 sensuous calm seemed to steal over her excited 
 brain. Still holding the rose in her hand she 
 sank back into a chair and closed her dark eyes. 
 
 How wonderfully he had spoken about the 
 dominion of Art, of her claims for he had 
 insisted that Art was an exquisite woman of 
 her cruelty of her divine rewards ! 
 
 Art demanded the whole of one's life. In re- 
 turn she gave one hour of perfect bliss, perhaps ? 
 One hour of perfect understanding ! 
 
 De Vesian's eyes, humid with emotion, 
 seemed to take shape in the shadows. His sen- 
 sitive mouth his curved lips seemed to smile 
 at her. A flood of color rose to her cheeks. She 
 was alone, but she felt strangely shy.
 
 WHAT IS LOVE? 65 
 
 For many moments she sat quite still her 
 dark eyes resting on the shadows which had sud- 
 denly taken form her childish lips parted the 
 laces of her white wrapper quivering because her 
 heart was beating violently. 
 
 He was wonderful ! 
 
 And he believed in her. 
 
 That seemed strangest of all. 
 
 He believed she had a great talent, that one 
 day she might be world-famous as Madame 
 Lucienne almost. 
 
 It seemed incredible, but it was gloriously 
 true. For had he not said as much? And was 
 he not the jealous guardian of those realms of 
 
 Art which he considered sacred? 
 
 ***** 
 
 Night had fallen. In the streets of Paris 
 light-hearted crowds were pouring into brilliant- 
 ly lighted cafes and theaters. 
 
 Within stone's throw of the Rue de Douai 
 the famous cabarets of Montmartre were begin- 
 ning to prepare for their midnight orgies. At 
 the Red-Mill there were workers eagerly light- 
 ing fairy lamps which made the trees sparkle 
 cunningly. 
 
 Paris was awakening to its real life. Through 
 the open windows there came a faint sound of 
 dreamy waltz music from a neighboring restau- 
 rant.
 
 66 WHAT IS LOVE? 
 
 And in the little pink and white bedroom ill- 
 assorted emotions, like masked figures at a car- 
 nival ball, danced a cancan ambition, girlish 
 ignorance which believed itself to be knowledge, 
 restless longings for admiration and for fame, 
 impatient struggles against a control which did 
 not spring from genuine affection : for Isola, 
 deep down in her heart, knew that her aunt did 
 not really love her. And with all this far 
 above it all the longing to satisfy him, to show 
 him that he had been right when he said that 
 she had a great talent. 
 
 She took up the manuscript again. 
 
 Her father's portrait lay on the couch by her 
 side, and close by it the white roses she had 
 taken from the silver vase. 
 
 From time to time she glanced questioningly 
 at the face she adored. And it seemed to her 
 that the splendid, firm mouth smiled. 
 
 She raised the picture and kissed it. 
 
 "Daddy darling, I must succeed, / must!" 
 
 The mysterious smile seemed to deepen. A 
 glow of triumph flashed into the girl's face. 
 Bending over the book she began to study its 
 pages.
 
 CHAPTER IV 
 
 THERE are women in the grand monde 
 whose very names suggest luxury and ec- 
 lectic extravagance. Princess Borizoff was one 
 of these. 
 
 She was immensely rich. All her people had 
 been powerful. Her husband, long dead, had 
 been related to the royal family of Russia. 
 From the moment when, a child of six, she had 
 been permitted to stand by her beautiful 
 mother's knee on reception days and to hear the 
 compliments of ambassadors and princes, she 
 had been environed by a ceaseless, ever-chang- 
 ing murmur of adulation. 
 
 Beautiful, wealthy, imperious, absolutely free, 
 it was not surprising that she regarded the world 
 as a tireless slave. And the world her world 
 at any rate seemed quite content with its 
 humble position. 
 
 The famous Russian beauty was no longer 
 young, but no human being would have dared 
 to mention the detestable words "I'age incertain" 
 in connection with her name. Her age was 
 chronicled in the Almanach de Gotha for all the 
 world to read she was fifty-five. 
 
 There were silver threads running through 
 67
 
 68 WHAT IS LOVE? 
 
 her splendid dark hair. Directly in front, fall- 
 ing lightly over her broad white forehead, there 
 was a pure white lock. That curious white curl 
 had been handed down from several generations 
 of ancestors ; it was amazingly attractive. 
 
 Tall, slender, supremely graceful, the Prin- 
 cess was an autocratic sovereign in the world of 
 fashion. Her taste was exquisite as it was ex- 
 travagant. She was at once the idol and the 
 despair of the famous couturieres of Paris, for 
 it was her habit to issue commands instead of 
 accepting advice, or even suggestions. She had 
 the power to make or mar a new fashion, and 
 she never permitted her fournisseurs to forget 
 that fact. 
 
 In various countries, in the choicest corners of 
 many European capitals, there were mansions 
 and villas which bore the charmed name of 
 Borizoff. The Princess detested the modern 
 mania for living in big hotels. The idea of 
 occupying rooms which had recently been occu- 
 pied by persons unknown to her seemed peculiar- 
 ly distasteful. She visited her intimate friends 
 sometimes. She was ready to welcome them 
 to her house always. 
 
 Years before, when she had been in the hey- 
 day of life, she had passed a good deal of time, 
 frequently whole winters, at the Villa Borizoff 
 in Rome. It was a house which had specially
 
 WHAT IS LOVE? 69 
 
 pleased her, notwithstanding the fact that she 
 considered the great reception-rooms too gor- 
 geous, and the baths, exact replicas of those once 
 owned by Petronius Arbiter, too pretentious. 
 
 Nevertheless, she had loved Rome in those 
 days. 
 
 But twenty-two, nearly twenty-three, years 
 had passed since her last visit to the Eter- 
 nal City. Her acquaintances said she was ca- 
 pricious r in that as in all other things. One or 
 two persons suspected, vaguely, that a strong 
 reason lay behind the orders which kept the 
 Villa Borizoff always in perfect readiness to re- 
 ceive its mistress and always empty. 
 
 Clio Underwood, a school friend of the Prin- 
 cess, suspected. 
 
 One man, who had willingly given the love of 
 his life to a woman who had nothing to give in 
 return except cold friendship, knew. 
 
 Boris de Romanoff still cherished a letter 
 which had been written to him in the Villa Bor- 
 izoff, years before. It had caused him exquisite 
 torture. It contained a confession of love love 
 for a man whom he had never seen. 
 
 Those frank words of love, written about 
 another man, had frozen the blood in his veins, 
 and yet it was very precious very wonderful, 
 that old letter. It was a confession of failure 
 from the proudest of women. For the love she
 
 70 WHAT IS LOVE? 
 
 had felt for that unknown, thrice-blessed man 
 had not been returned. 
 
 "Tout le monde est bete une fois ?" Gabrielle 
 Borizoff had written those words at the end of 
 her confession. 
 
 "Une fois?" In the years that followed how 
 many times had Boris de Romanoff tortured 
 himself by repeating those two little words? 
 
 His sovereign-lady had been weak, perhaps 
 foolish, once! 
 
 Could it be that the burning hand of Love 
 
 would touch her never again? 
 
 ***** 
 
 The Hotel Borizoff in the Avenue du Bois de 
 Boulogne was a long, rather low, building. It 
 stood in the midst of beautiful gardens. At 
 either end of the house there was an open pass- 
 age surrounded by pillars, in loggia fashion. 
 Though the grounds were not really extensive 
 they were so cleverly laid out that they gave an 
 impression of space. Massive trees sheltered the 
 house at the right side. High railings, covered 
 with ivy, hid it from the road. 
 
 It lay almost directly in the shadow of the Arc 
 de Triomphe, but the noise of carriages, cease- 
 lessly sweeping up and down the Avenue du Bois, 
 hardly reached the reception-rooms, which were 
 situated at the back of the house. 
 
 These rooms were very spacious. The walls
 
 WHAT IS LOVE? 71 
 
 were hung with lovely old tapestries. In 
 the larger salon there was a deep frieze of white 
 marble, delicately carved. The pale gold wood- 
 work and rose Dubarry brocade of Louis XVI. 
 furniture harmonized well with polished ebony 
 floors. In unexpected corners, cleverly formed 
 by priceless screens, crimson azaleas supplied a 
 blaze of vivid color. Long French windows 
 opened on a broad terrace, where pale roses 
 climbed over stone balustrades and where the 
 fantastic shadows cast by giant palms gave a 
 momentary impression of Eastern sunshine. 
 
 It was a house specially suitable for cere- 
 monious receptions : dinners to royal personages 
 who found Paris the junction of the civilized 
 world. 
 
 It was very magnificent. Nevertheless and 
 this was specially true of the Princess's favorite 
 rooms there was an air of comfort which al- 
 most expressed "homeyness!" 
 
 It was a delicious afternoon, late in April. 
 Even in Paris there was real sunshine. The 
 house was still carefully heated, but the breezes 
 that floated in through open windows were only 
 faintly chill. A breath of summer seemed to 
 soften the air. 
 
 Princess Borizoff was sitting in the smaller of 
 the suite of salons. It was her "day." Already,
 
 72 WHAT IS LOVE? 
 
 though it was still early, several intimate friends 
 surrounded her. 
 
 She looked lovely as she leaned back against 
 the pale rose cushions of her chair and let her 
 great dark eyes wander out into the gardens. A 
 long rope of pearls lay against her throat and 
 fell, in milk-white drops, on her folded hands. 
 Her gown was an apotheosis of Mechlin lace and 
 silver embroideries. At her breast there was a 
 cluster of roses. 
 
 For a moment there was silence in the room. 
 It was a meeting of intimate friends who knew 
 that they were free from conventional restraints. 
 
 Standing by one of the open windows was a 
 tall, singularly handsome man. He also was 
 looking out over the terraces and his finely-cut 
 profile was thrown into relief against a branch of 
 climbing roses. He was not young, probably 
 fifty-eight or even sixty. His thick hair, cut 
 close to his head, was silver-gray. His heavy 
 moustache was almost white. Physically he was 
 a splendid specimen of his sex, broad of shoulder 
 and long of limb. It had been said of Comte 
 Boris de Romanoff that he had, naturally, the 
 "royal manner." Certainly he possessed the 
 mysterious quality known as "distinction." 
 
 He leaned his head against the frame of the 
 window and watched an adventurous butterfly, 
 born out of season, flitting here and there
 
 WHAT IS LOVE 1 ? 73 
 
 amongst the flowers. Then he turned and let 
 his dreamy eyes rest on the face of the woman he 
 had so long adored. She was wonderful, match- 
 less. 
 
 He found himself wondering what she could 
 be thinking of as she sat there, motionless. She 
 was one of those women who make their finest 
 effects by silences, but he knew that "effect," in 
 the ordinary sense of the word, was unknown to 
 her. 
 
 She was lost in thought. In an instant a host 
 of jealous fancies crowded into his brain. Was 
 she thinking of the past? Was she, at that mo- 
 ment, thinking of the only man who had ever 
 found the secret path which led to her heart? 
 
 With Boris de Romanoff the memory of the 
 painter, Miles Dering, was an obsession. Night 
 and day it haunted him. And the passage of 
 years brought no relief. 
 
 Unconsciously he clenched his hands. At that 
 moment a woman's voice broke the silence. 
 
 "He's immensely clever, of course, but I al- 
 ways feel I want to avoid him." 
 
 "Vous avez des apergns tres fins!" 
 
 The Princess smiled as she spoke. She turned 
 and looked at the pretty woman who had been 
 her life-long friend. Clio Underwood made a 
 little grimace.
 
 74 WHAT IS LOVE? 
 
 " 'Des apergusf Perhaps! He simply 
 doesn't appeal to me and Robin detests him." 
 
 The smile on Princess Borizoff's face deep- 
 ened. She suppressed it with deliberate inten- 
 tion. 
 
 "Where is he that wonderful boy of yours? 
 I told him to come here this afternoon." 
 
 "He's coming. We met Madame Constantine 
 at the Rond Point half an hour ago and she in- 
 sisted on carrying him off to choose hats. She 
 says Robin's taste is 'singularly poetic,' if you 
 know what that means I don't." 
 
 "My dear Clio, it's simply a Constantine-like 
 method of saying that your son is a joli garqon! 
 She will make an effective entry in a moment or 
 two, holding him by the hand." 
 
 Clio Underwood stretched out her small feet 
 and contemplated the toes of her bronze shoes. 
 
 She was a very pretty woman, with soft masses 
 of nut-brown hair framing her face and a pair of 
 remarkably effective eyes : golden-brown in color 
 and sufficiently large. She was one of those 
 fortunate women who never seem to lose their 
 hold upon youth. There was nothing artificial 
 about her, no "make-up" other than the neces- 
 sary dust of face-powder. She did not try to 
 dress youthfully, but still she suggested youth. 
 
 She was a widow. She had been a widow 
 when twenty-two years before she had mar-
 
 WHAT IS LOVE? 75 
 
 ried James Underwood, an American whose 
 claims to consideration from his country were 
 based on foundations other than mere wealth, 
 though he had been a rich man. She had been 
 exceedingly, almost perfectly, happy in her sec- 
 ond marriage, so happy that even now, ten years 
 after the death of the man who had worshipped 
 her, she could not bear to mention his name. She 
 was still happy, for her boy was the most deli- 
 cious thing in the world, and she was as free 
 from care as it had been possible for James Un- 
 derwood to make her, but there was an empty 
 chamber in her heart. There were moments in 
 her life many of them when she knew she 
 would give up everything she possessed, except 
 Robin, to hear her husband's deep, vibrating 
 voice again ; to feel the touch of the strong arms 
 which had held her close until the fingers of 
 death unloosed them, relentlessly. 
 
 Boris de Romanoff left the window and pulled 
 forward a chair. 
 
 "What has poor de Vesian done to you, chere 
 Madame? He is such a favorite with your sex! 
 So much so that here in Paris they speak of him 
 as 'la coqueluche des femmes'!" 
 
 Clio drew down her soft red lips. 
 
 "I know. That's just it. All the women 
 fawn on him it's positively disgusting." 
 
 "He's very clever."
 
 76 WHAT IS LOVE"? 
 
 The Princess spoke with conviction. Boris de 
 Romanoff looked at her deprecatingly. 
 
 "Surely something more than that?" 
 
 "You mean that he has genius?" 
 
 He nodded hesitatingly. The Princess smiled. 
 Her splendid eyes wandered to a great jar of 
 Chinese dragon china which was filled with 
 branches of white lilac. The jar stood on a low 
 pillar of carved ebony and the scheme of sub- 
 dued color gave her pleasure. Then she said: 
 
 "Genius? I wonder what it really is? An 
 exotic blossom of Ego-mania according to the 
 gospel of Nordau. Or was Emile de Saint 
 Auban right when he said of our men of genius : 
 'They are the expression of an epoch. They em- 
 body a series of dreams and instincts which blos- 
 som forth in their energy. They represent the 
 finest rose flowering on the top of the rose-tree, 
 through which the tree salutes the activities of 
 the sap?'" 
 
 Boris shrugged his shoulders slightly. Clio 
 laughed. 
 
 "I can't imagine the sap of a healthy rose-tree 
 thanking Monsieur de Vesian for his salute ! In 
 my opinion he and his friend Gaston Lery are 
 simply diabolically clever and diabolically de- 
 generate. They're the fashion, of course; at 
 least they're the fashion in Paris but how long
 
 WHAT IS LOVE? 77 
 
 does a fashion last? Genius, the genuine article, 
 was never fashionable." 
 
 "Gaston Lery is more than merely clever. He 
 has subtle intuitions." 
 
 Again the Princess spoke with conviction. 
 Clio's lip curled. 
 
 "He imagines he has made an exhaustive 
 study of women, but I don't at all agree with 
 him. He reminds me of that wonderful picture 
 of the man with the muck-rake." 
 
 Boris clapped his hands softly. 
 
 "Bravo ! Bravo ! Mrs. Underwood, you're 
 deliciously refreshing!" 
 
 "Well isn't it true? Doesn't he spend his 
 time raking about in the dust of our lowest im- 
 pulses and emotions? He may know a good 
 deal about one side of the average woman's 
 character, but isn't there another and vastly 
 different side? And of what value are the de- 
 ductions of a one-sided student? You might as 
 well insist that a man who had known negroes 
 all his life, and negroes only, had the right to 
 insist that all the world was imbued with negro 
 instincts." 
 
 Both her listeners laughed at her excitement. 
 The Princess leaned forward and shook a warn- 
 ing finger. 
 
 "You must find some other simile. The color-
 
 78 WHAT IS LOVE 1 ? 
 
 line is no longer the mode. You must forget 
 that your husband was a Southerner." 
 
 Before Clio could reply Boris broke in. 
 
 "Paris is quite excited about this new play of 
 Lery's that's coming out at the Theatre Gerome. 
 At the clubs they are whispering great things 
 about the girl who is to represent the 'Jeune fille 
 de Demain' " 
 
 He spoke with intention, urged on by an 
 insane desire to know how the Princess regarded 
 the situation. He had never met Isola Bering, 
 but he knew that she was his daughter. 
 
 Gabrielle Borizoff leaned back carelessly. Her 
 eyes rested on Mrs. Underwood's face. 
 
 "You have met Miss Bering, n'est-ce pas? Is 
 she really so very pretty ? Her mother had the 
 reputation of being a great beauty." 
 
 "Yes. She's lovely." 
 
 "And clever?" 
 
 Clio shrugged her shoulders. 
 
 "Who can tell? I suppose she must be more 
 than usually intelligent or Lucienne Gerome 
 wouldn't have taken her up." 
 
 "It seems rather a curious idea the French 
 stage for a young girl especially an English 
 girl of good position ! Certainly it's unusual. 
 But then all that will make a good advertise- 
 ment. No doubt Gerome's astute manager rec- 
 ognized that."
 
 WHAT IS LOVE? 79 
 
 A faint flush of annoyance rose to Clio's face. 
 She took a cigarette from a box on the table and 
 looked at her hostess. 
 
 "Is it permissible on your day?" She dain- 
 tily leaned forward so that the match which had 
 been struck by Boris de Romanoff might reach 
 the fragile paper. "Yes it's unusual, but the 
 girl has made up her mind to become an actress 
 on the French stage so her aunt told me. Poor 
 little Miss Dering was evidently very distressed 
 about it, but que voulez vous? The girl was de- 
 termined!" She threw back her head and in- 
 haled the smoke impatiently. Then she turned 
 sharply and looked at the Princess. "But surely 
 you've seen her ? She has played already in one 
 or two small parts with Gerome!" 
 
 "I rarely go to the Theatre Gerome. La 
 Belle Lucienne's day is over she is beginning 
 to exaggerate all her own points. She has even 
 managed to force too much honey into her fa- 
 mous voice! She ought to retire." 
 
 "I suppose she must be ?" 
 
 The Princess laughed maliciously. 
 
 "My dear Clio what an eloquent pause! I 
 didn't think you were such a spiteful little pussy- 
 cat ! Poor Gerome. It's hard on her, of course, 
 but even a famous actress cannot remain youth- 
 ful forever! Oh if only these poor dear 
 women would introduce a little common-sense
 
 8o WHAT IS LOVE? 
 
 into their daily life ! If only they would realize 
 that for an attractive woman there are many 
 arenas in which triumphs may be enjoyed, but 
 different arenas. If only one could induce 
 women to glide along before it becomes neces- 
 sary for some one to give the little push which 
 is so hurtful to vanity I" 
 
 She laughed again, but this time there was 
 malice in the silvery ripple. 
 
 "The very last time I saw Gerome on the 
 stage she was playing Juliet at a benefit mati- 
 nee ! And Guy de Vesian was in one of the stage 
 boxes!" 
 
 "She played well?" 
 
 "Probably. She's far too experienced to play 
 badly, but I hardly looked at her I was look- 
 ing at de Vesian. His face, when she leaned over 
 the balcony, under that glare of artificial moon- 
 light ?" 
 
 "He looked disgusted?" 
 
 "Oh, no ! Only intensely sorry. I think 
 he would have given anything he possessed at 
 that moment for the power to cloud over that 
 glare with a rosy veil." 
 
 "You think our ultra-modern poet is human 
 after all? You think he was really sorry to 
 see that Gerome is getting old?" 
 
 Boris smiled as he spoke. The Princess was 
 also smiling.
 
 WHAT IS LOVE"? 81 
 
 "I think I am sure, that he was very sorry 
 for himself! They have been close friends, of 
 course, and all the world knows that she is madly 
 in love with him still. He was intensely sorry 
 for his own sorrow if you can follow that in- 
 tricate emotion?" 
 
 Before Boris could reply the joyous barking of 
 a small dog made itself heard in one of the outer 
 salons. A second later a tall boy came quickly 
 into the room, accompanied by a little black- 
 masked Pekingese who never ceased to bark his 
 welcome. Robin Underwood crossed the room 
 and lifted Princess Borizoff's hand to his lips. 
 He was almost exaggeratedly English in most 
 respects, but he had nice little ways ! Tall, slight, 
 broad of shoulder, and straight as an arrow 
 he was a son any woman might have been proud 
 to own. And his mother's pride was reflected 
 in her face : it was beaming. 
 
 "Auntie do you want to buy hats? If you 
 do I'll go with you and choose 'em. I'm an 
 expert ! Madame Constantine says my gout is 
 tres fin, and that all my ideas are extremely 
 nouveau jeu! I've had the loveliest time. All 
 the pretty mannequin girls kept trying on hats 
 and marching about, and Madame Constantine 
 bought six two of 'em just like baby's bon- 
 nets!" 
 
 The Princess laughed gaily. Robin was an
 
 82 WHAT IS LOVE? 
 
 established favorite. She was not his aunt 
 indeed, she was not related to him in any way, 
 but he and she had arrived at the pet-name 
 "Auntie" after a heated discussion in which the 
 boy had declined to make use of her title and 
 had spewed "Madame" fom his lips. "I'll call 
 you 'M'am' if you like like the Queen, but 
 MADAME never! It's a kind of shop-walker 
 word, or the sort of thing you'd say to a fat 
 lady who was standing, both-feet-at-the-same- 
 time, on your mother's feet in the stalls, between 
 the acts, but to a lovely person like you never!" 
 And of course he had had his way. The Prin- 
 cess loved to hear him say "Auntie" with that 
 delicious little suspicion of a lisp which refused 
 to be shaken off. The boy was not afraid of her, 
 and in this connection he had few companions. 
 
 She rose and placed her hand on his arm. 
 
 "We will go into the next room. It must be 
 tea-time." 
 
 With a familiar gesture she put up her hand 
 and touched the Malmaison carnation in his 
 button-hole. 
 
 "What a dandy you are, Robby? I thought 
 the Beau Brummel spirit had died out in Eng- 
 land." 
 
 He squeezed her hand against his side and 
 looked down his dark blue eyes' dancing with 
 amusement.
 
 WHAT IS LOVE? 83 
 
 "Not a bit of it. Paris sets the fashions for 
 women's things, but ive over the water we 
 Englishmen set the fashions for Europe, Asia, 
 Africa, and America so far as men's clothes are 
 concerned. We know what's what, I can tell 
 you !" She laughed outright. Stretching up her 
 arm she ran her white fingers through his crisp 
 hair. 
 
 "Oh I say Auntie! And Madame Con- 
 stantine'll be here in a minute. Oh that's 
 too bad. You deserve to be punished!" 
 
 He bent over threateningly. She looked up, 
 and a second later he kissed her softly on the 
 cheek. 
 
 She was still scolding him as they passed, arm 
 in arm, into the great reception-rooms. 
 
 Clio Underwood stood still. Her face was 
 wreathed in smiles. Boris de Romanoff sighed 
 impatiently. 
 
 "He is a young man of courage, your tall 
 son. I must say he makes the most of his op- 
 portunities." 
 
 Clio nodded. 
 
 "He does what he likes with every one. I 
 don't know how he manages it, but no one seems 
 able to resist him. I have given up making any 
 effort in that direction." 
 
 "He's a splendid young fellow, and he must 
 be a delightful companion. Don't you rather
 
 84 WHAT IS LOVE? 
 
 dread the moment when the small boy with the 
 fatal arrows will surely single him out?" 
 
 Mrs. Underwood smiled. But the smile 
 quickly faded from her lips. It had never 
 reached her eyes. 
 
 A moment later they followed their hostess 
 into the larger room.
 
 CHAPTER V 
 
 1 DON'T agree with you. Of course you are 
 an incomparable artist, but at the same time 
 you are liable to make mistakes ; all artists, even 
 the greatest, are liable to make mistakes." 
 
 Lucienne Gerome smiled rather patronizingly 
 as she spoke. She was looking unusually mag- 
 nificent in a peignoir of pale rose satin embroid- 
 ered with gold threads. It was a superb gar- 
 ment, the gift of a famous Indian Prince. At 
 her throat there was a foam of fine lace. Her 
 hands were covered with jewels. A sapphire 
 pendant hung low from a diamond chain. 
 
 Madame Cheret looked at her. For a mo- 
 ment she was silent. 
 
 They made a striking contrast the two 
 famous "artistes," for Madame Cheret was as 
 well known in Paris, and all over Europe, as was 
 La Belle Gerome herself. 
 
 She was a great dressmaker, so great that it 
 was sufficient to say "Cheret" and all the world 
 understood. 
 
 She was autocratic. Her word had to be 
 
 accepted as law, or a polite attendant was 
 
 ready to indicate the door of her private atelier. 
 
 There was only one woman in the world from 
 
 85
 
 86 WHAT IS LOVE? 
 
 whom she accepted suggestions which some- 
 times closely resembled commands and that 
 one woman was Princess Borizoff. The idea of 
 accepting suggestions from an actress caused her 
 so much inward amusement that she remained 
 silent until her delicate features were entirely 
 under control. 
 
 Curiosity, mingled with a feeling of kindli- 
 ness for she and Lucienne Gerome had known 
 each other a good many years had induced 
 Magda Cheret to break one of her hard-and-fast 
 rules. She had called upon a client, instead of 
 making an appointment for that client to visit 
 her studio. 
 
 She had not seen the actress at close quarters 
 since her return from the States, and she wished 
 to find out for herself whether certain vague 
 whispers had a foundation of fact. It had been 
 said, rather insistently, that Madame Gerome 
 was beginning to "break up," that the famous 
 ligne was no longer quite graceful, that the most 
 skilled masseuses found it impossible to preserve 
 the once-delicate outline of chin and throat. On 
 dit had been very busy. 
 
 Madame Cheret was accustomed to the cruel- 
 ties and eccentricities of gossip, but she was 
 curious. 
 
 They made a strong contrast the two fa-
 
 WHAT IS LOVE? 87 
 
 mous women: Magda Cheret supremely self- 
 possessed, calm, dignified. She was exquisitely 
 dressed, but so quietly that ninety-nine in a hun- 
 dred would probably have passed her without 
 comment. The hundredth person, if unusually 
 eclectic, would have noted the fact that the lace 
 on the jabot which framed the firm chin was old 
 Valenciennes and of great value. That the sin- 
 gle row of pearls which lay against the white 
 throat were perfectly matched and of unusual 
 size. That in every smallest detail the simple 
 walking costume was a work of art: dark blue 
 serge, plain in outline to the point of severity; 
 but the buttons on the coat had been made to 
 order in Imari, from an authentic design of the 
 great Tokuzayemon, and so had the parasol 
 handle, which matched them. The world-famous 
 dressmaker was a thoroughly successful woman 
 in every walk of life. She was rich, and she was 
 contented. Her chateau in the environs of Fon- 
 tainebleau was perfectly appointed. Her villa at 
 Mentone was the envy of English visitors, who 
 marvelled at its sunny terraces and luxuriant 
 rose-gardens. She was the owner of a beautiful 
 steam-yacht. Her horses and carriages were be- 
 yond reproach. Even her husband and her 
 children were well ordered and the best of their 
 kind. Monsieur Andre Berthold for "Cheret" 
 was a nom de guerre adored his wife. He was
 
 88 WHAT IS LOVE? 
 
 a painter of considerable talent and a designer 
 of genius, but he never for a moment attempted 
 to force his personality into prominence. He 
 was thoroughly content with his position as 
 Monsieur Cheret. 
 
 Lucienne Gerome looked impatient. 
 
 "You are offended, chere amief You do not 
 like to be told that you might, possibly, make a 
 mistake?" 
 
 Madame Cheret smiled. 
 
 "I am not offended. I am thinking." 
 
 "You agree with me? You see that a Jose- 
 phine waist-line would suit me would show off 
 my bust to advantage?" 
 
 "I do not think so. When we speak of the 
 'Josephine waist-line' we are thinking of the 
 portraits of the Empress when she was a young 
 woman." 
 
 "You mean" 
 
 Lucienne leaned forward and stared insolently 
 at her visitor. She had grown suddenly white. 
 Magda Cheret noticed a faint line running from 
 the corner of the mouth to the chin. 
 
 "You wish me to throw down my cards? 
 Well! The ligne suitable for a woman of 
 twenty is not, cannot be, the best ligne for a 
 woman of forty-eight." 
 
 The words were spoken quietly, without
 
 WHAT IS LOVE? 89 
 
 emotion. But they burnt their way into Lucienne 
 Gerome's soul. She trembled with rage. She 
 stood up. 
 
 "I did not ask you to come here to insult me ! 
 You are offended because I did not like the last 
 things you made for me. You have taken a very 
 small, mean way of revenging yourself." 
 
 Madame Cheret also rose. With a gesture of 
 complete indifference she stretched out her hand 
 and took her silver-mounted sack from the table. 
 
 "I am not offended. And I have no desire 
 to insult you. You said you wished for the 
 truth " 
 
 "The truth? What truth?" 
 
 The great dressmaker remained silent. Lu- 
 cienne reached forward and caught her hand, 
 violently. 
 
 "What do you mean by 'the truth'? You 
 must tell me you shall tell me " 
 
 Madame Cheret, quietly loosening the detain- 
 ing fingers, replied: 
 
 "My dear friend a very simple thing, this 
 'truth' ! There comes a moment in each woman's 
 life when it is necessary for her to adapt herself 
 to altered circumstances. Our bodies, even the 
 most beautiful, are not changeless. The ligne of 
 to-day ought not to be the ligne of to-morrow 
 that is all." 
 
 "You mean -" The actress ran forward
 
 90 WHAT IS LOVE 
 
 and stared into one of the long mirrors which 
 lined the walls. There was a look of fury on her 
 quivering face. In her eyes there was hatred. 
 "It is a lie! a base, cowardly lie! You are 
 running Gaby de Lancy I know it I have 
 seen her photographs dozens of them in your 
 dresses! You have been paid to make her the 
 fashion, and now you want to get me out of the 
 way you want to persuade me that I am no 
 longer young that the moment has come when 
 I must change my ligne! Oh, oh it's shameful ! 
 Disgusting! Unworthy utterly unworthy!" 
 
 She had worked herself up into a fury of ex- 
 citement. Her face was white. Her dark eyes 
 seemed filled with flame. Her wonderful voice 
 reverberated round the room. 
 
 She looked magnificent! 
 
 But she looked hard almost old. 
 
 Madame Cheret watched her. The expression 
 of half-contemptuous kindliness had faded from 
 her calm face. Her glance was intentionally 
 critical. 
 
 "Bien! That is the end. You have chosen 
 to treat me as you might treat your butcher or 
 your hairdresser. Bien! I am more than satis- 
 fied. Nothing remains but the settlement of our 
 little account. I shall give myself the pleasure 
 of sending it to you to-morrow." 
 
 It was the self-possessed little bourgeoise who
 
 WHAT IS LOVE? 91 
 
 spoke the woman who had made a great and 
 perfectly legitimate success; who had made val- 
 uable investments, who w r ould still be a rich 
 woman if the Rue de la Paix establishment closed 
 its massive doors on the morrow. Magda 
 Cheret had consented to dress successful actresses 
 from time to time, but she was imbued with that 
 secret contempt for their calling which belongs, 
 innately, to French women of the middle classes. 
 They were good advertisements, in a way, but 
 they were one and all given over to pose ! She 
 loathed the genre "M'as tu vu!" Very quietly 
 she adjusted her coat and walked towards the 
 door. 
 
 "The man who takes charge of your private 
 lift is waiting, I presume?" 
 
 Lucienne made a gesture of assent. 
 
 In that moment the blood of her concierge- 
 mother flooded her whole being. She wanted to 
 do something hurtful spiteful. 
 
 Standing perfectly still, she waved her hand 
 to indicate the door. Madame Cheret opened 
 it. A white-robed servant thrust a thin, dark 
 face into the opening. 
 
 "Take Madame la couturiere down." 
 
 Her voice sounded hoarse and rasping. 
 Madame Cheret passed out. Before she en- 
 tered the lift she turned and looked back into the 
 gorgeous room.
 
 92 WHAT IS LOVE? 
 
 It was "the end" indeed! 
 
 She had been dismissed insultingly. "Bien!" 
 
 The door closed. A second later the faint 
 
 rumble of a descending lift made itself heard. 
 
 ***** 
 
 For many moments Lucienne Gerome re- 
 mained standing in the middle of her dressing- 
 room, her body tense, her lips compressed into a 
 thin, vicious line. She was beside herself with 
 fury and with something very like terror. 
 
 Magda Cheret's eyes. What had they said? 
 What was the real meaning of their comprehen- 
 sive glance? She hated, loathed, execrated, the 
 dressmaker, but she feared the silent verdict of 
 those expressive eyes. 
 
 Magda Cheret was spiteful detestably spite- 
 ful, but she knew everything there was to be 
 known about her profession. 
 
 She was a real artist. 
 
 Lucienne stood before the long mirror and 
 stared into its depths. 
 
 She stretched out her arms in one of her most 
 effective gestures. She threw back her head and 
 silently ran through some phrases of one of her 
 famous roles. 
 
 Her sinuous form was thrown into strong re- 
 lief against the background of a splendid Japan- 
 ese silk screen. Her superb peignoir draped it- 
 self about her in exquisite folds.
 
 WHAT IS LOVE*? 93 
 
 Her wonderful fair hair seemed veiled in 
 glistening gold. 
 
 Yes! Yes yes! She was beautiful! seduc- 
 tive ! regal still ! 
 
 Unconsciously she spoke the last word aloud. 
 
 And as she spoke it something seemed to hap- 
 pen in her brain? in her heart? some horri- 
 ble, impossible thing! 
 
 "Still?" 
 
 Where had she heard that fatal word? Who 
 had spoken it to her quite recently? 
 
 Burning tears suddenly welled up into her 
 eyes. She began to sob hysterically. With an 
 inarticulate cry she flung herself down on the 
 
 low couch. 
 
 ***** 
 
 The moments passed. 
 
 The faithful Cora had entered softly from an 
 inner room ; but had not spoken. 
 
 She knew she was not wanted in such circum- 
 stances. 
 
 From time to time and lately these times had 
 approached each other very closely her beloved 
 mistress gave way to fits of violent hysterics. To 
 Cora this seemed natural, since it was impossible 
 for any one, even Lucienne Gerome, to control 
 irritated nerves forever. The old woman was 
 not surprised, but she felt very sad. Her beau- 
 tiful, splendid mistress! Was it possible that
 
 94 WHAT IS LOVE? 
 
 anything was going wrong with her? Was it 
 possible that some evil was about to touch that 
 charmed life? 
 
 Very quietly she folded and arranged the 
 dresses in the great wardrobes and chests. Then 
 she noiselessly closed the door of the inner 
 room. 
 
 Lucienne's sobs died away. She lay motion- 
 less on the couch her head buried in the pile of 
 satin cushions. She was only half conscious. 
 
 She was wandering in an enchanted country 
 where strangely brilliant flowers threw out ener- 
 vating perfumes from their hidden hearts. 
 
 She was walking through silent streets where 
 the pavements were of silver, where fantastic 
 ivory walls inset with enormous crystals gleamed 
 against the subtle darkness of a midsummer 
 night, where exquisite music floated towards her 
 from unseen balconies. 
 
 And he was by her side the man she so pas- 
 sionately adored. 
 
 His white, cool hands were framing her burn- 
 ing face. His dreamy eyes, adoring and laden 
 with desire, were looking down into the depths 
 of hers ! 
 
 They were together in that enchanted coun- 
 try. They were alone. 
 
 It was the burning romance of Romeo and
 
 WHAT IS LOVE 4 ? 9^ 
 
 Juliet the sweet, mad passion of Adrienne 
 Lecouvreur and Maurice de Saxe ! 
 
 She threw out her beautiful white arms and 
 clasped them round the yielding cushions. 
 
 "You are my world my hope yes, and my 
 God" Adrienne Lecouvreur's dying words, her 
 last passionate declaration of love. 
 
 With trembling fingers she drew from her 
 breast a little miniature rimmed in diamonds. 
 She laid it by her on the pillow and gazed down 
 into Guy de Vesian's face. 
 
 "You are my God my life my all. I love 
 you I love you / love you!" 
 
 Her burning lips were lying against the little 
 oval of porcelain. She was whispering to it as 
 a woman whispers in the ear of her lover when 
 they are alone in the shadows. 
 
 When she again softly slipped the miniature 
 into her breast her face had grown calm. She 
 looked beautiful; almost youthful. 
 
 Cora entered, bringing a glass of hot milk and 
 some finger biscuits. She spoke a few words, 
 and Lucienne answered dreamily. The old 
 woman looked at her furtively. Her quick eyes 
 took in the story of the torn and crushed laces, 
 of the crimson marks which showed that in a 
 moment of furious excitement the pointed nails 
 had been driven into the soft yellow palms. She
 
 96 WHAT IS LOVE? 
 
 longed to offer sympathy; but she did not dare. 
 When she left the room Lucienne drew a table 
 towards her and took up some loose papers. 
 
 The new piece ? A great deal depended on it ! 
 Jules Rivaud was convinced that it would have 
 a great success in the States. And Lucienne, 
 the most unbusiness-like of women, vaguely 
 realized that "the States" meant a good deal to 
 him; and, incidentally, to her. 
 
 As she turned over the papers the thought 
 came to her that she must get her manager to 
 pay Madame Cheret's account, at once. It would 
 be a serious affair, probably a matter of many 
 thousands of pounds, but it must be paid, at 
 once! She was glad that the break with Magda 
 Cheret had been made final. Now she was free 
 to place herself in the hands of Raoul Bossan 
 the great Raoul who had made all Paris gasp at 
 his extravagant fetes, his daring designs, his 
 autocratic enunciations. 
 
 Raoul had offered to dress her. He, or was 
 it his secretary? had carelessly stated that a sub- 
 stantial sum of money would have to be de- 
 posited. Probably in the case of "Madame 
 Gerome," who would naturally require many 
 costly toilettes, this sum would amount to about 
 20,000 or 30,000. Lucienne had paid very 
 little attention to the matter. But now it struck 
 her that Rivaud must find this money also. So
 
 WHAT IS LOVE? 97 
 
 far as she was personally concerned she never 
 had a five-pound note to spare for dressmakers. 
 There were so many people dependent upon her; 
 such endless calls on her private purse. All her 
 life she had made money quickly. All her life 
 she had spent it even before it was made. 
 
 As she looked through her papers her eyes fell 
 on Isola Bering's name. It was a private letter 
 from Gaston Lery. She took it up. "So far as 
 appearance goes she is delicious, quite perfect. 
 But, chere Madame, how can we make her into 
 a real Madeleine? That is the puzzle. All the 
 necessary material is there : the lovely body, the 
 warm imagination, the passionate nature, the 
 longing for excitement, for luxury, for color! 
 The material is there, but who is to mold it into 
 the desired form? It would be an entrancing 
 task for a lover but where to find him? She is 
 not facile, the delicious little Isola. She longs 
 to taste of the fruit of life, but she would refuse 
 it unless it were offered by what her compatriots 
 would call 'the right man.' It is a problem ! 
 It is distracting ! You, who are the wisest as the 
 most beautiful of women, can you not suggest 
 something? Or must we try to find another 
 Madeleine?" 
 
 There was much more, but it was on these
 
 98 WHAT IS LOVE? 
 
 lines that Lucienne's thoughts concentrated. 
 
 Gaston Lery was Guy's intimate friend. 
 
 Guy had expressed an opinion that Isola Der- 
 ing would make an ideal Madeleine Delorme. 
 
 It had seemed like a careless suggestion, but 
 something in the musical voice had made Lu- 
 cienne determined to fall in with the idea. No 
 one in the world should have the opportunity of 
 saying that she needed a foil. She would play 
 the part of a mother, the mother of an exquisite 
 girl, and she would triumph ! She would con- 
 centrate all her powers upon the part. She would 
 make the public feel that a great love is its own 
 justification. 
 
 Once again she read the letter. 
 
 What had he really meant, Gaston Lery? 
 
 She knew him to be a man without any com- 
 prehension of what ordinary persons call moral- 
 ity. He was unscrupulous, essentially ruse. 
 
 What had he meant? 
 
 With characteristic impatience she started up 
 and paced to and fro. She looked like some wild 
 animal in a cage. There was a strangely in- 
 human expression in her half-closed eyes. She 
 was thinking, frantically. 
 
 To and fro, backwards and forwards, the 
 rustle of silken skirts whispered to the perfumed 
 air.
 
 WHAT IS LOVE? 99 
 
 Lery had meant something ! 
 
 Of that she became convinced. 
 
 What? 
 
 There was a pillared table, it looked almost 
 like an altar, against the wall at the end of the 
 room. She walked towards it very quickly. 
 Then she paused. Her breath came and went 
 in little gasps. On the table there was a large 
 photograph of de Vesian. He had been taken 
 looking straight into the camera. His startling- 
 ly expressive eyes seemed full of mischievous 
 amusement. Lucienne stood motionless. Then 
 she bent forward and seized the photograph. 
 The wild animal within her had entered into 
 possession of its rights. It had been set free. 
 
 Passionate, frantic words burst from her lips. 
 She was as a woman possessed of a devil. 
 
 "You wished it why? You influenced Lery 
 why why why ?" 
 
 Her horrible thoughts took shape in dread- 
 ful words. Her nervous hands clutched the 
 massive frame. She stared into the depths of 
 dreamy, malicious eyes. 
 
 Gaston Lery was a devil. All the world knew 
 that. 
 
 He had influence with Guy de Vesian. They 
 had been close friends for many years. 
 
 Lery would not hesitate to sacrifice his own
 
 loo WHAT IS LOVE? 
 
 mother if that sacrifice was likely to further the 
 success of his plays. 
 
 His imagination had seized upon Isola Bering 
 it had singled her out as an ideal "Madeleine" 
 if only she could be "molded." 
 
 She was not "facile." 
 
 Lucienne laughed wildly as she recalled the 
 girl's natural horror of the dramatist with the 
 fevered eyes her vain attempts to force her- 
 self to seem natural and gay when he was present. 
 
 No! She would never be "facile" where 
 Gaston Lery was concerned. He knew it. He 
 had not meant that. 
 
 She was still staring wildly into de Vesian's 
 pictured eyes when the door of the inner room 
 opened and the old attendant entered. 
 
 Cora spoke softly. She asked some simple 
 question. 
 
 At the sound of the familiar voice the last 
 remnant of control vanished. Lucienne literally 
 flung herself upon the intruder. With a flood of 
 coarse words and imprecations which would have 
 commanded admiration in the Holies of Paris 
 she drove the old woman back and back. For 
 a single second Cora thought that her last hour 
 had come. She uttered a sharp cry and closed 
 her eyes as the cruel fingers closed in about her 
 throat.
 
 WHAT IS LOVE 4 ? 101 
 
 That helpless cry broke the spell. 
 
 With a gesture of savage affection the actress 
 flung her arms round the faithful servant's neck 
 and broke into pitiful weeping. 
 
 For more than an hour she sobbed in the 
 shelter of those circling arms. For more than 
 an hour Cora had to listen to broken sentences 
 fierce accusations piteous fears. It was a 
 scene of horror that hour of despair in the life 
 of a woman who had been the idol of Europe. 
 
 Poor old Cora. 
 
 Her heart bled for the mistress she adored 
 the woman who was in reality her niece. This 
 was her most cherished secret ! Never, to a living 
 soul, had she confided the fact that Lucienne's 
 mother had been her only sister. The actress 
 herself did not know that the tie was one of 
 blood though she knew that Cora had known 
 her pretty, frail mother. 
 
 The hours passed. Once the man who 
 guarded the private lift had ventured, after hav- 
 ing knocked repeatedly, to open the door very 
 softly. Cora had spoken a few words of definite 
 command and the dark face had disappeared. 
 
 The afternoon was drawing on before the 
 poor swollen eyelids fell heavily before sleep 
 brought with it oblivion. 
 
 Very softly Cora laid the tired head down
 
 102 WHAT IS LOVE*? 
 
 amongst the pillows of the couch. With ex- 
 quisite tenderness she smoothed the ruffled hair 
 and passed a large powder-puff over the flushed 
 cheeks. With deft fingers she arranged the laces 
 of the gorgeous peignoir and drew forward a 
 large jar of white lilies. 
 
 Lucienne looked beautiful ! 
 
 One might almost have imagined that she was 
 on the stage giving to the enraptured public 
 one of those wonderful death-scenes for which 
 she was famous. With steps of velvet the old 
 woman withdrew. But as she passed the table 
 on which de Vesian's portrait was standing, she 
 stopped abruptly and stared at it. 
 
 There was impotent fury on the hard old 
 face, undying hatred. 
 
 She had been so happy, her lovely "Madame 
 Lucienne" until she had met him! until she had 
 given of her best instead of taking everything 
 that was offered. 
 
 For the first time a man had really influenced 
 the beautiful actress had obsessed her. What 
 was to be the end? 
 
 For answer, Guy de Vesian's eyes smiled at 
 her, maliciously, until she had passed into the 
 inner room.
 
 CHAPTER VI 
 
 IT was a brilliant house ! 
 Tout Paris was to be found in the boxes 
 and stalls of the Theatre Gerome poets, critics, 
 dramatists, famous beauties; a semi-royalty or 
 two; millionaires and their wives. 
 
 A typical repetition generate of a fashionable 
 Parisian theater; Princess Borizoff sat in the 
 front of her box and glanced carelessly round 
 the house. 
 
 How many, countless, times she had assisted 
 at just such a scene. How many clever plays 
 she had seen launched. So many of them 
 doomed to destruction. 
 
 And this much-talked-of piece "La Jeune 
 fille de Demain" what would be its fate? Was 
 Gaston Lery going to score still another tri- 
 umph? Was it really true that he understood 
 better than any other dramatist the hidden sym- 
 pathies of Paris? 
 
 She leaned back and drew a white velvet wrap 
 closer about her shoulders. She was a little 
 bored and yet she felt stimulated. 
 
 There was electricity in the air. 
 
 Her old friend Clio Underwood was sitting 
 beside her, but it was on the eager face of Clio's 
 103
 
 104 WHAT IS LOVE? 
 
 son that the dark, fathomless eyes rested. How 
 handsome he was that boy with the splendid- 
 ly poised head and steadfast eyes. How ab- 
 sorbed he seemed in the play ! 
 
 The story was unfolding itself in pitiless de- 
 tail. 
 
 The second act was half over. The Jeune 
 fille de Demain was on the stage alone with 
 her mother's lover. He was devouring her with 
 amorous, liquid eyes. He was wooing her with 
 voice and with touch; he was painting glowing 
 word-pictures of Southern scenes where exotic 
 flowers filled the still air with enervating per- 
 fumes. 
 
 It was a passionate love-scene, and the girl, 
 who was supposed to be little more than a child, 
 was leading him on yet warding him off ! She 
 looked like an angel. She was made to speak 
 the words of a devil. The fiendish imagination 
 of Gaston Lery had conceived a jeune file who 
 was at heart corrupt who was eager to seize 
 on the first opportunity for putting her power 
 over men to the test who was consumed by 
 a fierce longing for excitement. He had intended 
 to present to his eclectic circle a perfect study of 
 a jeune fille de demaln whose imagination was 
 thoroughly tainted. He had forced his drugged 
 brain to render up its most insidious thoughts.
 
 WHAT IS LOVE? 105 
 
 He had pieced the pitiful story together with 
 horrible skill. The piece was to be his chef- 
 d'azume perhaps even his swan-song. 
 
 At the rehearsals he had alternately raved at, 
 coaxed, and commanded the young girl who 
 seemed to have been sent from heaven to fill the 
 part of Madeleine. She was so lovely! Her 
 likeness to Lucienne Gerome, heightened by 
 skilful make-up, was remarkable: her mar- 
 vellous golden voice ! her supple, sinuous move- 
 ments ! 
 
 It was Madeleine Delorme as he had seen her 
 in his exotic dreams, and from the first he had 
 set himself the task of forcing Isola to realize 
 the character. 
 
 That morning, at the final rehearsal, he 
 believed he had succeeded. The girl had amazed 
 him. She had amazed every one. Even Lu- 
 cienne Gerome had been satisfied. 
 
 Jules Rivaud alone had realized that the won- 
 derful performance was a tour de force of over- 
 wrought nerves. 
 
 And Rivaud had remained silent. 
 
 Never had Lucienne Gerome played more 
 magnificently than on that night. Never had 
 she appeared more splendidly convincing than 
 at the moment when she threw herself on her 
 knees before her daughter and sobbed out her
 
 io6 WHAT IS LOVE? 
 
 piteous confession: her mad love for Pierre 
 Lassalle her hideous fear that he had grown 
 tired of her her passionate hope that the girl 
 would consent to go away for a time so that 
 she, the wretched mother, might have a chance 
 of winning back the love that was dearer to her 
 than life. It was a horrible scene, intensely 
 human, pitiful in its merciless revelation of a 
 woman's weakness. 
 
 A shudder seemed to pass through the 
 crowded house when the girl laughed. When 
 she turned on the wretched woman and made her 
 understand that she had always known why she 
 had been kept at school so long; that she had al- 
 ways intended to follow her mother's example 
 and to enjoy every moment of her life. 
 
 It was a horribly dramatic moment, and one 
 seemed to see the approach of relentless time as 
 the woman stared into empty space while the 
 
 curtain slowly descended. 
 
 ***** 
 
 Princess Borizoff sat very still after the fall of 
 the curtain. She was wandering in the realms of 
 the past. 
 
 A girl's dark eyes had suddenly bridged over 
 the gulf of vanished years. She was once again 
 sitting in her loge at the Teatro Costanzi in 
 Rome. A tall, dark man was standing by her 
 side. She was smiling up into his face rather ma-
 
 WHAT IS LOVE? 107 
 
 liciously. He was insisting that her hands were 
 the hands of an "idealist!" 
 
 So many years ago more than twenty! 
 
 Miles Bering was then unmarried. 
 
 The beautiful girl who was to become the 
 mother of that lovely child who had just left 
 the stage was then Violet Hilliard. She also 
 had been present on that memorable night at the 
 Teatro Costanzi. 
 
 For a second the Princess closed her eyes and 
 conjured up the vision of the English girl whose 
 eyes had then questioned her across the theater. 
 
 She had never spoken to Dering's wife; never 
 met her socially; but she remembered that 
 strange, startling beauty. 
 
 She remembered it : and she had seen it again 
 a moment ago in the person of Dering's 
 daughter. 
 
 The likeness was amazing. 
 
 Form, color, manner, intimate personal 
 charm : everything except the eyes : those won- 
 derful dark eyes ! searching, caressing haunting 
 in their expression of question and fire. 
 
 Miles Dering's eyes, as she had seen them in 
 moments of intimate friendship ; as she had seen 
 them on that night in the loggia of her house in 
 Rome, when she had confessed her love, when 
 he had shown such exquisite consideration 
 when he had made her understand.
 
 io8 WHAT IS LOVE? 
 
 She was the proudest of women, but she had 
 never regretted her moment of weakness. On 
 the contrary she had tenderly cherished its mem- 
 ory all through the passing years. She had en- 
 shrined it, as an intimate, priceless secret, in the 
 holy places of her heart. 
 
 The news of Bering's death had caused her 
 no pain. After that night in the loggia, when he 
 told her of his love for Violet Hilliard, she had 
 never wished to see him again in the flesh. As 
 a man he had passed out of her life. As an ideal 
 he had entered into complete possession of her 
 spirit. 
 
 He represented all that might have been if 
 if? 
 
 And this lovely girl who had just given such a 
 strange reading of a strange role did she in- 
 terest her at all? Did she wish to speak to her? 
 To look, closely, at those familiar eyes? Who 
 could tell? 
 
 With a little shiver the Princess turned in her 
 seat and glanced at her old friend Clio Under- 
 wood, who was sitting at the back of the box. 
 Clio had known Dering? had known him very 
 well indeed. What was she thinking at that 
 moment ? 
 
 There was a sudden movement in the box. 
 Some one came in with a considerable amount of
 
 WHAT IS LOVE? 109 
 
 rustle. At the same moment some one uttered 
 an incoherent word and passed out abruptly; 
 that was Robin Underwood. 
 
 In the gleam of strong light which rushed in 
 from the vestibule the Princess saw his face. It 
 was haggard. For a single second the frank blue 
 eyes were turned on her and she recognized that 
 the boy was suffering intensely. 
 
 Then the door was shut and she half rose to 
 greet the Comtesse de Vesian. 
 
 That malicious old lady was wearing a won- 
 derful "creation" in which yellow satin and gold 
 embroideries made a background for emeralds 
 which would have seemed impossibly large if 
 they had not been historic. 
 
 She was shaking with suppressed laughter. 
 For a moment she made no attempt to speak. 
 
 Then she leaned forward and laid her hand 
 lightly on the Princess' arm. 
 
 "Chere Madame was it not stupendous! 
 The most magnificent farce that has ever been 
 presented to Paris! Poor Lery. I am con- 
 vinced that he will enter into the realms of ob- 
 livion this very night, through the valley of 
 hashish dreams. He will never have the cour- 
 age to face the guns of to-morrow's news- 
 papers!" 
 
 "You mean ?" 
 
 The Princess was smiling coldly.
 
 no WHAT IS LOVE? 
 
 "'Mean?' But there is only one meaning? 
 That wonderful little girl has put to shame the 
 most shameless dramatist in Paris ! She has given 
 his friends a chance of saying that he is at heart 
 a moralist that his jeune fille de demain is a 
 symbol ! She, in her own very attractive person, 
 has disproved his pet theory that our modern 
 girls drink in corruption with their sterilized 
 milk. Tout Paris is laughing at him ! When I 
 peeped into his loge just now, I found him hud- 
 dled up in a chair in the darkest corner, and Guy 
 was standing over him discoursing on the subject 
 of the importance of 'form' and the subtlety of 
 'substance,' etc., etc! You know that line of 
 thought the thread which is supposed to unite 
 the Parnassians and the Diabolists and all the 
 other ego-maniacs of our delightfully uncivilized 
 world. For Guy the girl's golden voice was 
 enough. For our poor Lery the voice expressed 
 nothing except the fact that its owner had re- 
 versed his idea of the piece. Mile. Dering has 
 consciously or unconsciously, given an air of vir- 
 ginal innocence to corrupt words. She has made 
 her mother's genuine passion seem ridiculous. 
 Oh it's stupendous ! It will certainly kill Lery, 
 
 and as to Gerome " She suddenly turned 
 
 and faced Mrs. Underwood. "She looked old 
 and faded to-n-ight, for the first time. She will
 
 WHAT IS LOVE? 111 
 
 also find it hard to forgive that wonderful girl 
 who will never be much of an actress." 
 
 "I don't agree with you. I consider Miss 
 Bering very clever remarkably clever. But 
 the piece is a very disagreeable one. No nice 
 girl should have been asked to play in it." 
 
 The Comtesse made a quaint grimace. 
 
 "Entendu! but what have 'nice' girls, par- 
 ticularly 'nice' English girls, to do with the 
 French stage? We don't write for the jeune 
 fille, nous autres! Look round, chere Madame. 
 Take up your glasses and look carefully. Is 
 there a single jeune fille in the house ? Not one ! 
 Lery isn't for the jeune fille. Neither is Gerome 1 
 Neither, for the matter of that, is my son Guy. 
 It is an odd position this: a young and really 
 lovely English girl playing at the Theatre 
 Gerome ! And you talk of 'nice' ?" 
 
 Her fat shoulders shook and her reddened 
 lips curved in an evil smile. 
 
 At that moment a strange thing happened in 
 the secret chambers of Princess Borizoff' s heart. 
 
 A curious, impossible mother-instinct quick- 
 ened. 
 
 This was Bering's daughter. Bering's wife 
 was forgotten. 
 
 With a characteristically imperious gesture 
 she leaned back and let her eyes wander over her 
 visitor's remarkable person.
 
 112 WHAT IS LOVE 4 ? 
 
 "You are a Parisenne of Parisennes, quite 
 abnormally intelligent, but you overlook the fact 
 that nowadays the exclusive world of Paris is 
 forced to take color, just a little, from the world 
 in general. Ten years ago it would have been 
 impossible, I grant you, for a young English 
 girl of good birth to succeed on the French stage, 
 legitimately, but we are changing all that ! We 
 are becoming a little more enlightened. We are 
 beginning to recognize that the morals of the 
 cabarets are not necessarily the morals of well- 
 conducted theaters ! Myself, I should not have 
 recommended the stage as a profession for the 
 daughter of my old friend, Mr. Miles Bering, 
 but she wished to make the experiment. She 
 wished it very much. She is being permitted to 
 have her own way, but I fancy that we, her 
 friends, will be able to protect her from annoy- 
 ance." 
 
 She spoke very quietly, but there was a ring in 
 her voice that brought a flood of color to Clio's 
 cheeks. 
 
 For a second she stared in open amazement, 
 then, quickly, she looked away. 
 
 After all those years? 
 
 After that long, insistent silence? 
 
 ***** 
 
 The curtain had risen on the last act before 
 Robin Underwood returned. Noiselessly he
 
 WHAT IS LOVE? 113 
 
 slipped into his place behind the Princess. She 
 did not seem to be aware of his presence. 
 
 In a moment of strong excitement she had pro- 
 claimed herself the "friend" of the girl who had 
 just crossed the stage. 
 
 Was she glad? Or was she sorry? 
 
 She found it impossible to say. 
 
 In the darkness Clio slipped her hand through 
 Robin's arm. He turned and looked at her. 
 Even in the gloom of the darkened theater she 
 could see that his eyes were fevered and miser- 
 able. 
 
 At that moment Guy de Vesian leaned for- 
 ward over the edge of his loge. Isola Dering 
 looked up suddenly. It seemed as though she 
 had intentionally looked at the poet. Something 
 like a smothered groan broke from Robin's 
 compressed lips. 
 
 Relentlessly the shadows closed in about the 
 wretched story. The broken-hearted mother, 
 maddened by the knowledge that her lover, still 
 a young man, realizes that her youth is gone, 
 takes poison. And the girl? 
 
 Already tired of a man whom she has never 
 really loved, she disappears. 
 
 And the man? After one horrified glance at 
 the dead woman's worn face he also goes out. 
 And it is his fixed intention to search for the
 
 ii4 WHAT IS LOVE? 
 
 lovely siren who has taken complete possession 
 of his fervid imagination. 
 
 In his loge Gaston Lery was beside himself 
 with fury. 
 
 "She has killed it," he muttered again and 
 again. "She has killed it with that accursed 
 suggestion of redemption. If that Madeleine 
 ever met Pierre Lassalle again it would mean 
 marriage and a herd of children and stifling 
 respectability. What a fool I have been a 
 blind fool, about that wretched girl. Gerome 
 warned me my own intelligence warned me, 
 but I would not see the truth." 
 
 He raved on, but Guy de Vesian paid no at- 
 tention. He hardly seemed to hear his friend's 
 violent remonstrances even when they were di- 
 rected full at himself. 
 
 Isola ! 
 
 That liquid, delicious voice, those glorious 
 eyes, that enchanting form supple as the body 
 of a young child. 
 
 De Vesian was living in a world of enchant- 
 ment. 
 
 There had been many enthusiastic "calls." 
 Lucienne Gerome had been presented with great 
 baskets of roses. A cluster of waxen lilies, tied 
 with broad white ribbons, had been handed up 
 to "Madeleine,"
 
 WHAT IS LOVE? 115 
 
 A moment later a bouquet of pink moss-roses 
 was flung on the stage from a box. It fell at 
 Isola's feet, and she picked it up. She was 
 trembling with excitement and fatigue. Tears 
 stood in her dark eyes as she offered the roses 
 to Lucienne. The actress thrust them back with 
 a contemptuous gesture. 
 
 The tears overflowed as the girl raised her 
 head and looked at the brilliant house. She was 
 terrified. Something in Lucienne's manner had 
 made her feel that her efforts her frantic, tire- 
 less efforts, had been a failure. She was over- 
 wrought. 
 
 As the curtain was descending for the last 
 time she noticed that some one was leaning for- 
 ward in a box clapping wildly. 
 
 It was Robin Underwood ! 
 
 The moss-roses were his. She felt sure of it. 
 Robin was clapping for her sake to give her 
 courage ! She looked straight at him and smiled 
 very faintly. At that moment the falling cur- 
 tain hid her from view. 
 
 Princess Borizoff rose. 
 
 "She is beautiful," she said gently, as she laid 
 her hand on the boy's arm. "She has her 
 father's eyes. I find her very interesting I must 
 see something of her." 
 
 The boy caught his breath.
 
 ii6 WHAT IS LOVE? 
 
 "Auntie! What a darling you are what a 
 lovely, perfect darling!" 
 
 The whispered words, spoken in a voice 
 hoarse with emotion, were almost drowned in 
 the rustle of silks and laces; but Princess Bori- 
 zoff heard them. 
 
 She smiled and shook her head. 
 
 "When you and your mother have gone back 
 to England I shall ask Miss Dering to come and 
 see me." 
 
 She also spoke very softly. Robin caught her 
 hand and pressed it. 
 
 "Sweetest and loveliest of women I under- 
 stand. I'm the happiest man in the whole world 
 now!" 
 
 "'Man'?" 
 
 Robin answered the insulting insinuation by 
 repeating his pressure of her daintily gloved 
 hand. 
 
 Just then Clio Underwood joined them. 
 
 "Monsieur de Vesian is making his way 
 round," she said quickly. 
 
 The Princess passed her hand through 
 Robin's arm. 
 
 "Come!" she said. "It's time to go. I have 
 not the least wish to see our great minor-poet."
 
 CHAPTER VII 
 
 MRS. UNDERWOOD was sitting alone in 
 Princess Borizoff's favorite salon: the 
 smaller room which was situated at the end of 
 the reception-rooms. 
 
 It was a warm day. She had thrown off her 
 hat. Her chair was drawn close to an open win- 
 dow. 
 
 The Princess was out driving, but Clio War- 
 ing was quite at her ease. She was on the most 
 intimate terms of friendship with the lovely 
 woman who was the idol, and yet the despot, of 
 Paris. 
 
 She looked pretty and infinitely graceful as 
 she ruffled up her soft brown hair, which as yet 
 showed no silver threads, and stretched her arms 
 out on the cushions of her low chair. 
 
 She was perfectly, though quietly, dressed. A 
 subtle quality which may be called "finish" per- 
 vaded her whole personality. She gave the im- 
 pression of a woman who had been cared for 
 passionately loved, all her life. 
 
 On the broad terrace there was silence the 
 golden silence of a warm spring day in com- 
 munion with the spirit of summer. Already 
 there were roses on the climbing branches which 
 117
 
 ii8 WHAT IS LOVE? 
 
 clung against the stone balustrades. Already 
 the breath of the pale sun-god was warm and 
 soothing. 
 
 Some trick of memory carried her back, sud- 
 denly, to an afternoon years before at the 
 Villa Borizoff, in Rome. 
 
 Then she had been Clio Waring. 
 
 The big, splendid American who was to be- 
 come her devoted husband was then only a warm 
 admirer. The world had seemed very young 
 very full of possibilities. 
 
 And those possibilities had been abundantly 
 realized for her for a time. 
 
 She had been happy, gloriously, most perfect- 
 ly happy! 
 
 Life had seemed like one long delicious dream. 
 
 How he had loved her that man with the 
 clean-cut features of the Emperor Hadrian and 
 the dominating, exquisitely caressing manner. 
 
 How passionately he had loved her. How 
 sheltered had been her life while he lived. How 
 utterly, utterly forlorn she had felt when his 
 place became suddenly empty. 
 
 Her thoughts, in obedience to the promptings 
 of a keenly sensitive imagination, lingered for a 
 moment over the memory of those early days in 
 Rome, when she had been wooed and won. 
 Then they took flight and sought shelter in the 
 home the lovely old country-house in sunny
 
 WHAT IS LOVE? 119 
 
 Devon where her boy had been born, where she 
 had drunk deep of the waters of perfect peace, 
 where, at last, she had learnt that a little child 
 may have the power to combat the demon of 
 madness. 
 
 She leaned back and closed her eyes. 
 
 Robin! 
 
 Her baby her boy her tireless cavalier. 
 
 How splendid he was. How full of the glory 
 of life and hope arid love. 
 
 Robin ! 
 
 Unconsciously she put up her hand and ten- 
 derly touched a great bunch of Parma violets 
 which had been fastened amongst the laces of 
 her bodice by his loving fingers, not an hour ago. 
 
 He seemed made up of delightful little ways. 
 They were absolutely natural to him. And how 
 welcome they were to the mother-heart. 
 
 He had seen her safely into the carriage at 
 the door of the Continental Hotel where they 
 were staying. He had stood and watched her, 
 bareheaded, with the tireless breezes of the Rue 
 Castiglione disturbing the ripple of light brown 
 hair on his forehead. He had waved his hand 
 gaily as the carriage turned into the Rue de Ri- 
 voli, and she recalled the pang of dismay whicH 
 had flashed across her mind at that moment be- 
 cause she had, just then, realized that she was 
 about to betray him in a way. "Betray"
 
 120 WHAT IS LOVE? 
 
 seemed too strong a word, but it was certainly 
 true that she had started out with the intention 
 of discussing him with her old friend Gabrielle 
 Borizoff. 
 
 She sighed impatiently. 
 
 It must be getting late. She had come out to 
 the Avenue due Bois with a fixed intention, but 
 she knew that this intention was capable of being 
 weakened by the passage of time. 
 
 She was desperately unhappy about Robin, 
 desperately uncertain as to the direction in which 
 lay the path of duty. She felt she must have 
 advice the advice of an old and tried friend. 
 Gabrielle Borizoff was not at all fond of being 
 bothered about other people's intimate difficul- 
 ties, but she was a real friend. And she loved 
 Robin. 
 
 Some one was speaking in one of the larger 
 rooms. A moment later the Princess came in. 
 She was looking magnificently handsome. There 
 was a tinge of pale rose on her ivory cheeks. 
 Her mantle of sapphire-blue velvet and sable 
 fell in regal folds about her gracious form. In 
 her hand she had a cluster of loose roses. 
 
 She smiled as she kissed her visitor on both 
 cheeks. 
 
 "Welcome many times ! I am enchanted to 
 see you!"
 
 WHAT IS LOVE? 121 
 
 "You've been in the Bois?" 
 
 "I have been calling on an old friend who has 
 a villa at Boulogne sur Seine. The air out there 
 is splendid. It has made me quite ravenous ! 
 Surely they have brought in your tea?" 
 
 There was an impatient ring in the rich 
 voice. Mrs. Underwood hastened to explain 
 that she had elected to await the return of her 
 hostess. 
 
 "What nonsense! You are at home here. 
 Why should you wait for any one?" 
 
 Clio laughed and patted her friend's hand 
 soothingly. 
 
 "Don't get excited ! Your devoted people did 
 everything well-trained domestics could do. I 
 wished to wait and so I waited." 
 
 The Princess threw back her wrap and sat 
 down. She was gowned in some clinging black 
 stuff and the great rope of pearls which she al- 
 ways wore gleamed white against the sombre 
 folds that outlined her bust. 
 
 "Where's the boy?" 
 
 "Robin?" 
 
 "Of course. There is only one real boy in the 
 world our world at any rate !" 
 
 "He is very young. Terribly young, I often 
 think." 
 
 "Terribly?"' 
 
 There was a malicious light in Princess Bori-
 
 122 WHAT IS LOVE? 
 
 zoff's dark eyes. She bent over the tea-tray 
 which had just been brought in. 
 
 "Yes. 'Terribly!' He's a perfect darling, 
 but he has his father's nature in many respects. 
 It's not easy to influence him when he has made 
 up his mind to do anything." 
 
 "No? Do you care to explain that 'any- 
 thing'?" 
 
 "Yes I think so. In fact I came out here 
 to-day for the purpose of asking your advice. 
 I'm in a great difficulty, Gabrielle. I'm literally 
 worried to death and I don't know which way 
 to turn." 
 
 "All because of my boy Robby?" 
 
 "Yes. All because of Robin and because 
 of_of " 
 
 The Princess put down her cup and leaned 
 her arm on the table. She had not the slightest 
 intention of helping her friend out. If there 
 was something to be said it must be said with- 
 out assistance from her. 
 
 Mrs. Underwood looked at her irritably. 
 
 "You know very well what I mean. He's 
 madly in love with that girl. I thought at first 
 it was just a passing fancy for a pretty actress, 
 but he gets worse and worse. Last night he told 
 me he was determined to marry her absolutely 
 determined."
 
 WHAT IS LOVE? 123 
 
 "I presume you are speaking of Miss Der- 
 ing?" 
 
 "Of course." 
 
 There was a pause. 
 
 "She's a beautiful girl. Her father was a 
 friend of yours. I believe you still keep up a 
 sort of friendship with his sister, this girl's 
 aunt? What is the immense objection?" 
 
 " 'Objection?' To Isola Bering as a wife for 
 Robin? Are you mad?" 
 
 The Princess laughed softly. 
 
 "I don't think so! I can understand that you 
 would not, perhaps, have chosen an actress as a 
 wife for your only son, but then the young man 
 is one of those who do their own choosing. I 
 fancy you brought him up to have an independ- 
 ent spirit? And then there really is something 
 in heredity. Your husband was one of the most 
 charming men I ever met, but I don't think he 
 was easily influenced when once he had made 
 up his mind." 
 
 Tears rushed into Clio Underwood's brown 
 eyes: she looked down. For a moment there 
 was silence. The Princess stretched out her 
 hand. 
 
 "Forgive me, Clio. I didn't mean to hurt 
 
 you, but Robin He is such a dear boy^ 
 
 and so devoted to you. Can nothing be done?"
 
 124 WHAT IS LOVE? 
 
 "To make him give up the idea of marrying 
 that girl? Nothing that I know of." 
 
 "But I thought I understood that Miss 
 Bering had refused him?" 
 
 A flush of vivid indignation flooded the 
 mother's face. 
 
 "She did refuse him. It was the most im- 
 pertinent thing I ever heard of. Refuse Robin! 
 A little unknown actress who plays at the Thea- 
 tre Gerome, of all places in the world!" 
 
 Princess Borizoff found it impossible to stran- 
 gle a smile. She bent low over the tea-table to 
 hide it. 
 
 It was a curious situation but very natural. 
 The mother was indignant because her son 
 wished to marry the young actress, but she was 
 even more indignant because the young actress 
 did not want to marry her son. It was comical 
 from an outside point of view. 
 
 "But then?" The voice was well under con- 
 trol, even though there was a mischievous curve 
 hovering round the curves of the perfect mouth. 
 "Then the matter is at an end? You may feel 
 annoyed with Miss Bering, but surely you also 
 feel relieved?" 
 
 "Not at all! She refused him, heaven only 
 knows why, but she is still leading him on. You 
 saw how she looked up at him the other night 
 at the end of that abominable play?"
 
 WHAT IS LOVE? 125 
 
 For a second Princess Borizoff closed her eyes. 
 
 In imagination she was back again in the 
 crowded theater. All around there was a tumult 
 of sound. Men women too were eagerly ex- 
 pressing their feelings. An ominous hissing 
 sound was making itself felt through the sharp 
 ring of clapping hands. 
 
 On the stage there was a girl in white 
 draperies with a great bunch of moss-roses 
 tightly clasped in her trembling hands. And the 
 girl was frightened. There were tears in the 
 dark eyes that sought out as a child might seek 
 for a friend the eager face of the donor of 
 those homely roses. 
 
 Yes ! She had seen Isola Bering look up at 
 Robin at that critical moment. And she knew 
 the girl had done so instinctively without the 
 shadow of intention. 
 
 Those dark eyes, veiled in tears, had sought 
 for a friend. And the eyes of the daughter were 
 so extraordinarily like those of the dead father. 
 
 "You have met Miss Dering? You know 
 her?" 
 
 Clio turned in her chair impatiently. 
 
 "I know her very little. I saw her once or 
 twice when I was calling on her aunt; that's 
 all." 
 
 "And you dislike her?" 
 
 There was a note of quiet insistence in the low
 
 126 WHAT IS LOVE? 
 
 voice. Mrs. Underwood looked across the 
 table. 
 
 "As a girl, I neither like nor dislike her. As 
 a wife for Robin she is, of course, impossible." 
 
 "But why? Robin is very well off. He does 
 not need to seek for a wife with a substantial dot. 
 And so far as family goes I have always under- 
 stood that Mr. Bering's father was a man of po- 
 sition. And though Sir Weston Hilliard, if I 
 remember aright, was not a particularly desir- 
 able person, 'his people were all right,' as my 
 old friend Lady Egerton would have said." 
 
 "Gabrielle! What do you mean ? You who 
 are so fond of Robin you wish him to marry 
 an actress off the French stage? A girl who 
 has associated, intimately, with a woman like 
 Gerome?" 
 
 "My dear ! I never expressed a personal wish 
 in this connection. My personal wishes have 
 nothing to do with the matter. You say that 
 Robby is determined to marry Miss Bering? I 
 merely ask, tentatively, what is your real objec- 
 tion to such a marriage? As to Gerome " 
 
 The Princess shrugged her shoulders disdain- 
 fully, Mrs. Underwood leaned forward. 
 
 "There! You see it too. You recognize 
 that the Gerome entourage is an impossible one." 
 
 "My dear Clio our dear, delightful boy is 
 not proposing to marry La Belle Lucienne ! And
 
 WHAT IS LOVE 4 ? 127 
 
 if he did propose such a thing, I assure you 
 please do not get indignant she would refuse 
 him ! Gerome need not be taken into serious 
 consideration. She is finished almost. If you 
 are afraid that later on she would be an undesir- 
 able acquaintance for your son's possible wife, 
 you are giving yourself unnecessary annoyance. 
 When Lucienne Gerome realizes that she is a 
 middle-aged woman " She paused a sec- 
 ond; a faint smile, in which there was something 
 of cruelty as well as much of contempt, stole 
 across her face. "You remember the last act 
 of the Jeune file de Demain? The mother? 
 Gerome will do something of that sort one 
 day." 
 
 "Gabrielle!" Mrs. Underwood was staring 
 at her friend in open horror. "You think the 
 woman will commit suicide? You realize that 
 she is utterly without decent principles or 
 ideas? And still still " 
 
 "I repeat that you need not concern yourself 
 with her. It has happened that Miss Dering's 
 experiment has been made at the Theatre 
 Gerome which is, after all, one of the leading 
 theaters of Paris. I think it a pity that such an 
 experiment should have been made, but what 
 will you? In these days young girls are per- 
 mitted a great deal of freedom. Personal lib- 
 erty is theoretically the fashion."
 
 128 WHAT IS LOVE? 
 
 "If you had a son of your own an only son 
 would you like him to marry a girl off the 
 French stage?" 
 
 The question was blunt, almost offensively 
 direct. Even to her most intimate friends 
 Princess Borizoff allowed very little real liberty 
 of speech. She drew herself up. 
 
 "I have never had a son, therefore I cannot 
 make it a personal matter. But I find it diffi- 
 cult to believe that there can be anything of a 
 serious nature against Mr. Bering's daughter." 
 
 "Against her? No! Against her chosen 
 profession yes ! a thousand times yes. You 
 know I am not a particularly prudish person, 
 but I do draw the line at the French stage es- 
 pecially the stage in Paris. It's frankly impossi- 
 ble for a really nice girl the sort of girl one's 
 son might marry. You know that all the 
 world knows it. I don't say that French act- 
 resses aren't delightful and clever and amusing, 
 but they have no social position absolutely 
 none, and it's impossible that they could have 
 any position. They're a thing apart it's rec- 
 ognized that some one must back them some 
 one must pay for their wonderful gowns some 
 one must supply them with carriages and jewels 
 and steam yachts and all the rest of it. I don't 
 blame them for snatching all they can, with both 
 hands, for they're obliged to dress splendidly
 
 WHAT IS LOVE? 129 
 
 and go everywhere, otherwise people wouldn't 
 talk about them, but when it comes to marrying 
 one of them no! no! It's quite impossible." 
 
 "But I thought this is just what Miss Bering 
 herself has said?" 
 
 "She has refused Robin no one knows why. 
 But she means to marry him by-and-by. Of 
 that I'm absolutely certain." 
 
 "You think she really cares for him?" 
 
 "I think she really cares for his money his 
 position." 
 
 Clio spoke bitterly. She was thoroughly 
 roused. For days and weeks she had been brood- 
 ing over her trouble. When Robin had an- 
 nounced his intention of "running over to Paris" 
 she had at once proposed to accompany him. She 
 was miserable there, but she would have been 
 far more miserable in Devon unable to see 
 what was going on imagining all sorts of hor- 
 rible things. 
 
 Her love for her son amounted to idolatry. 
 He was the center of her existence. It is prob- 
 able that she would have secretly disliked any 
 girl who seemed likely to rob her of her treas- 
 ure, but in the case of Isola Dering she felt that 
 secrecy was unnecessary : all the world must re- 
 alize that such a marriage was impossible. 
 
 A second time, within a fortnight, a strange 
 thing happened to Princess Borizoff. A second
 
 130 WHAT IS LOVE? 
 
 time she felt a curious mother-instinct fluttering 
 in her heart. 
 
 Her old friend Clio Underwood had many 
 claims on her consideration and affection. She 
 had never, so far, spoken to the young actress. 
 And yet yet, she felt indignant when Robin's 
 mother asserted that Isola Bering was likely to 
 be attracted by Robin's money his position. 
 
 The emotion was unaccountable, but it was 
 present; and the Princess realized this. 
 
 She was not accustomed to concealing her 
 feelings. At that moment she permitted her 
 friend to see that she was displeased. 
 
 "I think you are not a very good judge of 
 character, chere amie! Certainly you do not 
 appreciate the power of atavism. It is a little 
 difficult to believe that Mr. Bering's daughter 
 could be a fortune-hunter." 
 
 A bright flush mounted to Mrs. Underwood's 
 face. She turned and stared at her friend. 
 
 "I suppose you remember that she had a 
 mother? What of Miss Violet Hilliard's views 
 of life her ambitions? All that happened a 
 long time ago, but I don't suppose you have for- 
 gotten that she was quite anxious to sell herself 
 to your friend Prince Platoff ? When you place 
 faith in atavism you must take into consideration 
 the fact that there is a mother as well as a father 
 in the case !"
 
 WHAT IS LOVE? 131 
 
 "Yes." The Princess was leaning back in her 
 chair. Her face was calm and very cold. Only 
 a very close observer could have seen the gleam 
 of anger in her dark eyes. "Yes! I never met 
 Mr. Bering's wife, but I understand that she, at 
 one time, had some intention of becoming Prin- 
 cess Platoff. Nevertheless the fact remains that 
 she became Mrs. Bering! And in considering 
 the little girl who is just now attracting all Paris 
 to the Theatre Gerome, I do not think we need 
 trouble very much about the mother. Made- 
 moiselle Isola is her father's daughter, or I am 
 seriously mistaken. She has his eyes, very 
 much of his expression, much of his manner. She 
 is still a young girl not more than eighteen I 
 should suppose. But though young, she is not 
 weak; certainly she is not avaricious. That much 
 any student of human nature could realize after 
 having once seen her. So far as I am concerned 
 I neither approve nor disapprove of this idea of 
 Robby's: I hold myself aloof until I have had 
 an opportunity of making Miss Bering's per- 
 sonal acquaintance, but I think you will find that 
 your boy is in earnest very much in earnest 
 indeed." 
 
 "Boys of his age are always 'in earnest' when 
 they fancy themselves in love." 
 
 Mrs. Underwood was excited and indignant. 
 It was incredible this attitude of her old
 
 132 WHAT IS LOVE? 
 
 friend! She could not understand it, but she 
 felt she had a right to be angry. 
 
 "In this case I do not think it is 'fancy.' " 
 
 "Robin has spoken to you of this girl?" 
 
 The question was abrupt. Clio Underwood 
 was really angry. 
 
 "No, not exactly. But I have seen him look 
 at her." 
 
 "Look!" 
 
 The Princess laughed softly. 
 
 "You are displeased with me? But I assure 
 you there is much in a 'look !' Personally I place 
 much more confidence in the eyes than in the 
 mouth where truth is concerned." 
 
 "It's just a mad infatuation. He'll get over 
 it and then he'll thank me for having kept him 
 from wrecking his whole life." 
 
 "You may be right." 
 
 The silence lasted quite a long time. Clio 
 was too much annoyed to speak calmly. Prin- 
 cess Borizoff was gazing dreamily out on the 
 darkening terrace. 
 
 Why had she taken up this attitude? Why 
 had she voluntarily proclaimed herself a cham- 
 pion of the wilful girl who had set all Paris 
 talking? 
 
 Why? 
 
 Too proud to be a coward, in small things or 
 in great, she drew aside the veil which shrouded
 
 WHAT IS LOVE? 133 
 
 her heart. She silently gave the answer to that 
 "Why!" 
 
 She was prepared to protect the daughter 
 because of her ideal memory of the father; be- 
 cause Miles Bering was still enshrined in the 
 sacred places of her life, because she believed 
 that he was the one man she could have accepted 
 as lord and master of her life. 
 
 All those years she had cherished his memory. 
 In silence, in strictest secrecy, she had idealized 
 him. She had placed him on a pedestal. And 
 his death had made it possible for her to keep 
 him there. There had never been a moment of 
 disillusion. 
 
 When she communed with her own thoughts 
 it pleased her to feel sure that if things had been 
 different // he had loved her if he had lived, 
 her life would have been very different. It 
 pleased her to feel convinced that she, also, 
 could have been humble and loving with the 
 right man. She was an intelligent woman, and 
 full of worldly knowledge. Her intelligence 
 told her that no man not even Miles Bering 
 would have had the power to change her nature, 
 radically: but then her vivid imagination whis- 
 pered another story. And when she was alone 
 with her memories her imagination always stole 
 out and took possession of the seat of honor. 
 
 One of Robin Underwood's chief attractions
 
 134 WHAT IS LOVE"? 
 
 was his fine, sane view of life, and of love. She 
 loved to hear the boy talk freely about his ideas 
 and his ambitions. In some subtle way he re- 
 minded her of the "Painter of Souls." 
 
 Robin was little more than a boy, and for his 
 age he was very young, but he was full of 
 splendid enthusiasms: and he, like the painter, 
 was absolutely free from mannerisms or "pose." 
 Many and many a time she had taken the trouble 
 to draw him out just for the pleasure of hearing 
 his fresh ideas, his firm- belief in the power of 
 ideals. There had been moments when he had 
 been able, unconsciously, to take her back to 
 those golden days when Miles Bering had given 
 her a little lecture on the subject of muffin- 
 toasting in the lovely green and white salon of 
 her villa at Rome; when he and she had dis- 
 coursed on a hundred different subjects; when 
 they had, in the cool of the evening, walked 
 amongst the roses in her famous garden. 
 
 Yes, many of Robin's ideas ran hand in hand 
 with those of the dead painter. And the boy 
 loved that painter's only daughter! What was 
 to be the end of it? 
 
 Mrs. Underwood rose from her seat and 
 walked to the window. For several moments 
 she stood there, looking out. Then she turned 
 round.
 
 WHAT IS LOVE? 135 
 
 "Gabrielle ! Please help me in this matter. 
 You have a great deal of influence with Robin 
 he thinks there's no one like you. Will you 
 make an opportuunity of speaking to him about 
 the life French actresses are obliged to lead of 
 the dreadful people they are obliged to associate 
 with ? You could do it quite naturally so much 
 better than I could. You are rather fond of 
 doing and saying mischievous things, but I know 
 you have my boy's happiness at heart. Please be 
 serious in this matter and do as I suggest." 
 
 The Princess looked at her visitor intently. 
 
 "I am serious. And in all seriousness I ask 
 you if you really believe that Miss Bering has 
 done anything which would make her unworthy 
 to be Robin's wife? Do you really believe that 
 the stage even the stage of Paris has con- 
 taminated her? Could you look at her and doubt 
 her purity?" The rich voice vibrated. Clio 
 looked startled. 
 
 "I didn't say that, exactly though every one 
 is talking about de Vesian's admiration for the 
 girl, and you know what he is. I didn't say 
 that there was anything really wrong, only that 
 it was from every point of view impossible." 
 
 "And suppose Robby refuses to take this 
 view? Suppose he insists on taking his own 
 way? "What then? He is just of age I think 
 his father's will gave him a great deal of liberty
 
 136 WHAT IS LOVE? 
 
 as well as plenty of money. Suppose he refuses 
 to abandon his determination to win Miss Der- 
 ing what then ? Can you take the risk of los- 
 ing him altogether?" 
 
 "Losing Robin?" Clio came forward very 
 quickly. "Losing him what do you mean?" 
 
 "It is a pitiful case when a man, a boy, has to 
 choose between his mother and the girl he 
 loves." 
 
 "You think Gabrielle what is in your 
 
 mind speak plainly!" 
 
 The Princess shrugged her shoulders slightly. 
 With careless grace she took up her fan and 
 opened it. 
 
 "My dear woman, what is there for me to 
 say? I asked if you were willing to take the 
 risk of losing your son that's all." 
 
 "You think You think " 
 
 But what Princess Borizoff thought remained 
 a secret, for a visitor was announced and the 
 conversation was not renewed.
 
 CHAPTER VIII 
 
 MY dear Miss Dering! 'Bored'? I don't 
 think I have ever been really bored! 
 Certainly you and this delicious tea and these 
 scrumptious cakes aren't 'boring' very much 
 the reverse!" 
 
 Robin Underwood pulled a chintz-covered 
 pillow from behind his back and punched it 
 violently. When it was soft enough to satisfy 
 him he tucked it behind his head and leaned back 
 contentedly. 
 
 Jessica Dering smiled. He was one of her 
 favorites this tall youth with frank blue eyes 
 and supple limbs. He always brought a breath 
 of pure country air with him when he invaded 
 the Rue de Douai. And then his manners were 
 so delightful, his whole personality so engaging. 
 
 The smile broadened as she watched him help 
 himself to two tetes de negres, luscious little 
 cakes made of chocolate and whipped cream 
 which he had loudly praised on the occasion of 
 his last visit and which she had sent for specially 
 that morning. During that last visit her niece 
 had been present then Robin had fiercely dis- 
 cussed the pros and cons of little silver forks in 
 connection with tetes de negres. He had ex- 
 is?
 
 138 WHAT IS LOVE? 
 
 pressed the opinion that a small spoon would be 
 much more practical: Isola, on the other hand, 
 had defended the small fork. Each had, in turn, 
 demonstrated. There had been much laughter 
 and light-hearted fun. 
 
 The poor little lonely aunt was unhappy. 
 
 She and her niece were on apparently friendly 
 terms, yet a gulf yawned between them. 
 Sometimes Jessica Bering thought that it was 
 her duty to bridge over that gulf. But how ? 
 
 Isola was always polite and attentive to her. 
 She never failed in any of those small attentions 
 which are due from a girl to her guardian. She 
 never seemed to refuse her confidence and yet 
 she never gave it. It seemed to the aunt that there 
 was between them something of an armed peace. 
 There were moments when she longed to throw 
 down her own poor weapons and to beg for a 
 complete understanding; but she could not do it. 
 Something in her nature made it impossible for 
 her to humble herself, in that way. 
 
 And Isola? 
 
 The girl seemed drifting through life on the 
 breast of a fever wave. She was always excited, 
 always restless, always, unconsciously, expectant. 
 
 She was a success and yet she was a failure ! 
 
 She had not realized the "Madeleine" 
 imagined by Gaston Lery, but she had created a
 
 WHAT IS LOVE? 139 
 
 "Madeleine" which was attracting all Paris to 
 the Theatre Gerome. 
 
 At first Lucienne Gerome had been furious. 
 Then the voice of Jules Rivaud had made itself 
 heard. The astute manager had quickly recog- 
 nized the fact that from a financial point of view 
 the piece would accomplish a succes fou. And he 
 was strong enough to dominate La Belle 
 Gerome's tigerish moods, just as he was strong 
 enough to force the debauched Lery to see on 
 which side his bread was buttered. And in this 
 contest of will, or of mood, he had been ably 
 assisted by Guy de Vesian. In his own way 
 Rivaud was as unscrupulous as was his trouble- 
 some dramatist. When he made up his mind to 
 arrive at a certain point, he arrived. And he 
 had started on his career with the fixed intention 
 of making enough money to retire while still a 
 comparatively young man. Actors, actresses, 
 dramatists, poets, musicians! all were to him so 
 many chessmen. Some were knights, some were 
 kings and queens, many were merely pawns. But 
 each one had to be coerced into making the right 
 move for Jules Rivaud ! 
 
 He had been amused at the turn things had 
 taken with regard to the latest Lery play. He 
 had understood that the dramatist had cause for 
 complaint. But the moment he realized that 
 Isola Dering was going to be a "fine draw" he
 
 140 WHAT IS LOVE? 
 
 determined to run the piece right to the end of 
 the season, just as it was ! 
 
 Lery had stormed! 
 
 Lucienne Gerome had been absolutely violent ! 
 
 But the manager had never lost an inch of 
 ground. His mind was made up. There was 
 money in the piece, much money. Isola Bering 
 was to retain her part. She was to go on play- 
 ing the role of the Jeune fille de Demain to the 
 best of her ability. The more she tried to con- 
 vey an impression of an innate corruption which 
 was incomprehensible to her the more people 
 talked; and discussed; and paid! 
 
 And it was Guy de Vesian who had made it 
 possible for Rivaud to carry his point. The poet 
 was at heart an eclectic artist. He adored art 
 for art's own dear sake. And he knew that from 
 an "artistic" point of view Isola was not an ideal 
 "Madeleine." 
 
 But she was exquisite! so wonderfully fresh, 
 so full of unrealized passion, so strong ; and yet 
 so confiding and infinitely tender. 
 
 She was exquisite ! 
 
 When he thought of her, alone in his lovely 
 garden, his life seemed filled with mysterious 
 ecstasy. The enervating perfumes of strange 
 flowers crept up and caressed his senses. She 
 had the power to lead him into the enchanted 
 land of Silver Dreams.
 
 WHAT IS LOVE? 141 
 
 She was his inspiration. 
 
 He loved to sit in the gloom of his loge at the 
 Theatre Gerome and to watch her passing and 
 re-passing on the stage. He loved to hear her 
 exquisite lips speaking the burning words which 
 his friend Lery had given to "Madeleine." 
 
 It was his delight to forget the crowded house 
 and to wander alone into the regions of imagina- 
 tion. 
 
 What were those insidious words whispering 
 to her? 
 
 Were they creeping slowly into her brain ? 
 
 Were they forcing her to understand their 
 meaning? 
 
 Was the little pale moth of corruption secretly 
 eating into that wonderful, spotless purity? 
 
 It gave Guy de Vesian intense pleasure to 
 watch the beautiful girl playing the much-dis- 
 cussed part. 
 
 And with both Lery and Lucienne Gerome 
 the poet's word was law. 
 
 Jules Rivaud rubbed his strong hands together 
 in complete satisfaction. "Ca y est!" 
 
 Without seeming to glance at the mantelpiece 
 Robin managed to see the face of a small silver 
 clock that stood on it at the corner. He was 
 far too polite to look at his watch, but he did
 
 142 WHAT IS LOVE? 
 
 want to know when, possibly, the door might 
 open to admit his defiant Queen of Loveliness. 
 
 Jessica Dering was looking at him through 
 lowered lashes. She was smiling. 
 
 "Your mother means to stay some time in 
 Paris?" 
 
 Robin gave a tremendous start. He had been 
 eagerly listening to the opening and shutting of 
 an outer door. 
 
 "Here? Oh I don't exactly know. A cou 
 pie of weeks, I fancy. She has a lot of friends 
 here. She and Auntie Madame Borizoff, you 
 know are tremendous cronies." 
 
 "Yes. I remember that your mother used to 
 be very often with Princess Borizoff before she 
 married your father. That was in Rome, many 
 years ago." 
 
 "Mr. Dering your brother was alive 
 then?" 
 
 Jessica made a gesture of assent. 
 
 "Yes. The time I am thinking of was before 
 his marriage." 
 
 "He must have been simply splendid. How 
 I wish I had had a chance of knowing him !" 
 
 "He was splendid." 
 
 She spoke very quietly, but there was a tremor 
 in her voice. Robin leaned forward, and softly 
 covered her clasped hands with one of his. 
 
 "I've heard wonderful things about him. I
 
 WHAT IS LOVE? 143 
 
 think Auntie must have known him rather well. 
 At any rate, she thinks no end of his paintings. 
 She has his 'Russia,' you know? She hardly 
 ever shows it to any one it's hanging in her 
 bedroom, but one day she talked to me about 
 it, and she told me that Igor Bolchakow, one of 
 her secretaries, is the grandchild of the old blind 
 man in the foreground of the picture. Some one 
 told her the story of the picture, and she got hold 
 of young Bolchakow, and educated him. Now 
 he holds quite a confidential position in her 
 house." 
 
 "Princess Borizoff did that? Why I won- 
 der?" 
 
 A faint tinge of color had mounted to Jessica 
 Bering's pale face. At that moment Isola came 
 into the room. 
 
 Robin bounded from his chair and grasped 
 her outstretched hand. 
 
 "Here I am again gobbling up tetes de 
 negres with very little help from one of these 
 perfectly useless little forks. I've eaten six, but 
 I think your aunt has a few reserved ones in 
 a bag somewhere! Haven't you, Miss Ber- 
 ing?" 
 
 Jessica nodded. The unwonted flush was still 
 resting on her cheeks. 
 
 "Isola !" she said quickly. "Mr. Underwood 
 has just told me a wonderful thing about one
 
 144 WHAT IS LOVE? 
 
 of your father's pictures. You know his 'Russia' 
 Princess Borizoff has always had it ! Well, it 
 appears that she, in some way, heard of the story 
 attached to it, and she has brought up and edu- 
 cated the grandson of the blind peasant of whom 
 you have often heard me speak the old man in 
 whom your father was so much interested. Oh 
 how I wish he could have known this ! It would 
 have delighted him more than anything. He 
 did what he could for the old man, but I often 
 heard him say that he was afraid the little grand- 
 child would have a hard time of it." 
 
 Isola's face was glowing with excitement. 
 
 "How splendid! How lovely it was of 
 Madame Borizoff to do that. How perfectly, 
 absolutely angelic ! I have always longed to see 
 father's 'Russia.' When I was a little girl Dr. 
 Doyenbert he's dead you know told me about 
 it and described the wonderful effect of limitless 
 snow and strength and struggle. It must be one 
 of the most wonderful of all father's pictures! 
 How I wish " 
 
 She stopped suddenly. She was confused. In 
 her enthusiasm she had seemed to ask for an 
 invitation for recognition. With a proud ges- 
 ture she drew herself up and advanced to the 
 table. 
 
 "I am literally starving! Auntie give me 
 some tea this very minute."
 
 WHAT IS LOVE? 145 
 
 For a second Robin sat very still. His brown 
 hands were clasped round his knee. He was 
 feeling what he himself would have called 
 "rotten." 
 
 He had wounded her his peerless Queen 
 his "garden of girls!" 
 
 Unconsciously but surely he had wounded her. 
 
 What had he better do now? An injudicious 
 word might, probably would, make things much 
 worse ! But to remain silent ! 
 
 It seemed to him that he must be a coward or 
 a sneak or both. 
 
 Miss Dering poured out a cup of tea. Robin 
 started up and took it from her hand. 
 
 "You'll love Auntie when you know her," he 
 said impulsively. "She wants awfully to make 
 your acquaintance she told me so the other 
 day. Lots of people are afraid of her, but she's 
 really no end of a brick when one knows her." 
 
 Isola smiled meaningly. 
 
 "You can give Princess Borizoff our address 
 if she really wants it. Aunt Jessica receives on 
 the first Thursday of the month." 
 
 The two pairs of young, fervent eyes met. In 
 Robin's there was a frantic appeal. 
 
 "That's all right," he said emphatically. "I'll 
 bring her up on Miss Bering's next 'day.' " 
 
 There was determination in his voice and
 
 146 WHAT IS LOVE? 
 
 manner. Jessica Dering looked at him wonder- 
 ingly. 
 
 "Princess Borizoff has never called upon me," 
 she said quietly. "I don't suppose she will do 
 so now. She knew my brother, but then, he had 
 a great many friends. He was wonderfully pop- 
 ular." 
 
 "She'll come up here with me on Thursday 
 week that's the day, isn't it? She wants to 
 make your niece's acquaintance and of course 
 yours too, she told me so." 
 
 The hurt look had vanished from the girl's 
 face, she was smiling rather maliciously. 
 
 "You must be a very amazing personage, Mr. 
 Underwood, if you can influence Princess Bori- 
 zoff ! Every one says that she is more imperious 
 than the Empress of all the Russias! I shall 
 await events with curiosity. Do you think she 
 will appreciate tetes de negres?" 
 
 "I'd back her to down any Russian empress 
 that ever existed, but all the same I'm not afraid 
 of her. She's a perfect darling, and I know 
 she'll love these squashy chaps. Do you dare 
 me to make her eat one with a spoon?" 
 
 Isola laughed. It was impossible to keep up 
 a great show of dignity with this outrageous 
 youth! His good humor was infectious. She 
 abandoned herself to the fascination of the 
 moment.
 
 WHAT IS LOVE? 147 
 
 Jessica Dering sat a little apart with a piece of 
 fine embroidery in her hand. 
 
 They were chatting joyously the two young 
 creatures on the low couch at the other side of 
 the room. There was nothing in Robin's manner 
 to indicate that he had ever asked a serious ques- 
 tion and received "no" for an answer. He 
 seemed absolutely at his ease. And, strangely 
 enough, Isola was at her ease too. They were 
 talking on every imaginable subject except the 
 Theatre Gerome. 
 
 Robin hated, loathed, execrated that splendid 
 play-house and everything connected with it ex- 
 cept the girl by his side. It seemed to him 
 nothing short of sacrilege that his exquisite 
 darling should be appearing on a public stage 
 a target for impertinent opera-glasses and dis- 
 respectful remarks. He hated it ! But he had 
 taught himself to remain silent for a time. She 
 must be allowed to have her fling. She was the 
 most wilful, adorable, delicious feminine thing 
 in the whole world, and of course, she had a few 
 fascinating little faults. The stage attracted her 
 because, poor innocent little darling, she knew 
 nothing of its realities. She was like Juliet or 
 Galatea wandering by moonlight in a graveyard, 
 and imagining that the flowers on the slabs of 
 white marble were roses of rapture instead of 
 immortelles !
 
 148 WHAT IS LOVE"? 
 
 She was so wilful! so divinely innocent! so 
 convinced that she was already a finished woman 
 of the world ! 
 
 Robin's voice was slightly raised. He was 
 speaking with warm enthusiasm. 
 
 "You'll simply love the big terrace that over- 
 looks the sea. The Mater's rose-garden is close 
 by, and just above the terrace there's a jolly big 
 lake covered with water-lilies. Oh it's the nicest 
 old place you can imagine. I know you'll love 
 it almost as much as I do." 
 
 He was speaking of his home in Devon. 
 Jessica caught her breath. 
 
 What next ? 
 
 Isola was leaning forward. Her little white 
 hands were clasped round her knees. She was 
 looking lovely in her simple walking dress of 
 dark blue cloth. A big black picture hat lay on 
 the couch by her side. 
 
 "I don't suppose I shall ever see Stutly Priory. 
 The south of England seems a long way off." 
 
 "Never see it my home?" Robin stopped 
 short. He had been on the point of saying more 
 than he intended to say just then. Mentally he 
 tightened his belt. "Oh, I say that's not very 
 friendly. Your aunt is coming over to stay with 
 us yes, Miss Dering, you know you've prom- 
 ised and though it's quite country there's plenty
 
 WHAT IS LOVE? 149 
 
 to do. The stables are rather a strong point, be- 
 cause my father was very fond of horses, and 
 there're no end of interesting places round about. 
 It's country, but we're fairly civilized. And then 
 it's nothing to run up to town. One can 
 motor up the whole way in nine or ten hours. 
 Most of the roads are so good that one hasn't 
 to bother much about speed-limits." 
 
 There was a glory of love and triumph shin- 
 ing in the deep blue eyes. Isola looked away. 
 
 "I'm sure it's all very beautiful, but then you 
 see the charms of country life are not for me! 
 An actress must live in big cities all the year 
 round, except the poor little holiday of two or 
 three weeks each year ! We two represent the 
 rich country gentleman and the poor player, you 
 know." 
 
 She laughed. And in the musical sound there 
 was malice. 
 
 Robin's face flushed. 
 
 "You like poking fun at me, but I don't care. 
 Those who win may laugh, and you may count 
 me amongst the winners, every time. When 
 you're standing, with me, on the terrace at the 
 end of the garden, watching the moon getting 
 out of bed, I'll remind you of this afternoon 
 and, like a jolly old Paddy of my acquaintance, 
 1'iriaff that hearty!'"
 
 150 WHAT IS LOVE? 
 
 The imp of malice took flight. It was im- 
 possible to resist the boy's joyous optimism. 
 
 "When did you decide to leave off pinafores? 
 And how old, exactly, are you?" 
 
 "Half-past twenty-one! A little more than 
 three years older than you, Mademoiselle !" 
 
 "Pas possible?" She stared at him mischiev- 
 ously. His devouring eyes answered the stare 
 with enthusiasm. "More than twenty-one? My 
 brother would have been very nearly that age if 
 he had lived." 
 
 Robin pulled his chair a little closer. 
 
 "He died when he was a small chap didn't 
 he?" 
 
 "A little baby. Before I was born. He was 
 'Miles,' like father. How I wish he had lived !" 
 
 He nodded. 
 
 "It's good for little girls to have male rela- 
 tives knocking round." 
 
 "Why specially?" 
 
 "Because we're the ones who take the kicks 
 of life, and the little girls are the ones to spend 
 the half-pence ! That's a rule worth remember- 
 ing, and it has been in existence, more or less, 
 ever since the days of the Garden of Eden, when 
 .Eve learned that she had made a big mistake in 
 allowing that sneaking old gardener to get hold 
 of the apple while she paid the price." 
 
 Jessica Bering was profoundly, almost nar-
 
 WHAT IS LOVE? 151 
 
 rowly, religious, but the profane words brought a 
 smile to her sad face. 
 
 "Where did you study theology, Mr. Under- 
 wood? And who taught you to draw that par- 
 ticular deduction from the story of the fall?" 
 
 Robin tapped his forehead vigorously. 
 
 "My gigantic brain! Rome wasn't built in a 
 day, you know, and poor little Eve couldn't have 
 known how her worldly-wise spouse would take 
 the very natural episode of the rosy-cheeked 
 apple! But when the big gates were shut 
 when they found themselves outside then she 
 knew! I haven't the least doubt but that she 
 said to herself, lots of times 'Next time I'll 
 just nip a luscious bite out of that nice apple, 
 and if any one has to pay for it let Adam see 
 to it!'" ' 
 
 Isola broke into riotous laughter. 
 
 "Bravo! Bravo! That's the right spirit! 
 We're to have everything that's nice, and you 
 are to pay for the nice things asking no ques- 
 tions?" 
 
 Robin leaned forward and rested his hands 
 resolutely on his knees. 
 
 "Questions don't crop up between people who 
 really understand each other. When it's a case 
 of a He and She and after all it's always such a 
 case the He trusts the She, absolutely ; and the 
 She knows that the He will take jolly good care
 
 152 WHAT IS LOVE? 
 
 that She has all the apples she wants without 
 money and without price. It's the business of 
 the He's of life to spoil and protect the She's 
 and to love 'em every minute of the day !" 
 
 The girl's color deepened. It was hard to 
 resist the call of those shining eyes. She was 
 sure she was not in love with Robin Underwood, 
 but somehow he always managed to make her 
 realize that if she had happened to love him, 
 her path in life would surely have been scattered 
 with roses. 
 
 She felt she must change the subject. Rising 
 from her seat she passed her fingers through the 
 bright waves of silky hair lying on her forehead. 
 
 "Didn't you say you particularly wanted to see 
 my favorite photograph of father, taken in 
 fencing dress? Shall I fetch it?" 
 
 Robin also rose. 
 
 "If it won't bother you. And please could 
 I see your mother's portrait, the one your father 
 painted in Japan? As a boy I often heard my 
 governor speak of that picture. I don't know 
 where he had seen it, but he described it so 
 minutely that I seem to know it quite well." 
 
 For a second Isola hesitated. Then she 
 nodded her head. 
 
 "Of course, if you like. It's too big to move, 
 but if you come into my room you can see it, and 
 father's photograph too."
 
 WHAT IS LOVE? 153 
 
 They passed out together. Jessica Bering 
 held her breath as she watched the two splendid 
 young figures so perfectly matched. 
 
 If only that might happen ! 
 
 Hot tears forced themselves into her tired 
 eyes. Had she been unjust to the girl? Had 
 she misjudged her? Was it possible that she 
 had mistaken natural wilfulness and ill-placed 
 enthusiasm for inherited worldliness? 
 
 Many times in the last weeks she had found 
 herself haunted by a great fear the fear that 
 she had been unjust to her brother's child. The 
 girl had been unfailingly attentive and respect- 
 ful to her; but never once, since that memorable 
 night when she herself had forbidden the subject 
 of the stage to be discussed, had she spoken of 
 her chosen profession. 
 
 From outside sources Miss Dering had 
 learned vaguely that there had been difficulties. 
 Once or twice she had been sorely tempted to ask 
 questions. But something in her niece's manner 
 in the expression of her dark eyes had driven 
 back the halting words. 
 
 In the long-ago days Jessica remembered an 
 occasion on which she had accused her brother, 
 then a boy, of some fault. He had been inno- 
 cent. She had refused to accept his word. 
 
 She never forgot the look in his eyes when she 
 demanded proofs. She seemed to see the same
 
 154 WHAT IS LOVE? 
 
 look now, at times, in the dark eyes of her 
 niece. 
 
 He J)e * * * 
 
 When Robin found himself in the pretty pink 
 and white nest sacred to his beloved one, he was 
 attacked by a host of different emotions. He felt 
 strangely shy. And side by side with this shy- 
 ness ran a wild desire to touch everything. A 
 dainty little white dressing-gown lay across the 
 foot of the bed. He wanted badly to take it 
 reverently in his hands and to press it against his 
 lips. 
 
 It was all hers! Everything in the lovely 
 little room was in intimate touch with her. As 
 they crossed to the place where the beautiful 
 portrait of a girl standing beside a lotus lake was 
 hanging, he brushed against the muslins of the 
 dressing-table. Furtively he stretched out a 
 brown hand and laid it softly on the ivory 
 brushes which lay, face downwards, on a bed of 
 soft lace. 
 
 He tried not to look at everything too much. 
 And yet he wanted so badly to look. In a way 
 it was necessary for him to takes notes, for he 
 would have to reconstruct just such a room over 
 there in England, on the side of the big house 
 which gave on the gardens, where the golden 
 sun-god delighted to linger! Yes, he must try 
 to see everything without seeming to be curious.
 
 WHAT IS LOVE? 155 
 
 He clasped his strong brown hands together and 
 set his lips lest they should form themselves into 
 burning words of love. 
 
 It would be no easy task, the winning of his 
 darling wife! She was wilful. And, at the 
 moment, she fancied she did not love him. 
 
 But she did! Robin felt it deep down in his 
 heart. Isola loved him, just a wee bit, already. 
 And before the wooing was over she would love 
 him with all her heart and soul. 
 
 He was sure sure. 
 
 Isola brought forward the photograph of her 
 father. Robin looked down into the luminous 
 eyes which were so like the eyes of his beloved. 
 The painter had been taken in fencing dress. The 
 tight jacket showed off his muscular figure to 
 perfection. He was smiling. The photograph 
 had been taken in the Salle d' Armes of a famous 
 fencing-master in Rome. Dering had always 
 had a horror of posing before a camera, but a 
 surprise had been sprung on him, and he was 
 amused. It was one of the best pictures that had 
 ever been taken of him. 
 
 Robin looked at it intently. 
 
 "I've seen this before or something very like 
 it. Auntie has one in her dressing-room but 
 it seems a little different." He held the picture 
 to the light and stared down into the splendid
 
 156 WHAT IS LOVE 4 ? 
 
 face. "Oh I see now. In this your father is 
 holding a mask in his hand. In Auntie's he has 
 a foil." 
 
 Isola came close to his side. 
 
 ' 'Auntie'? Do you mean Princess Borizoff? 
 How on earth did she come to have father's 
 photograph?" 
 
 Once again, just for a second, Robin was con- 
 scious that he had blundered. He was on the 
 point of pretending ignorance. Then he pulled 
 himself together. What right had he to suppose 
 that Princess Borizoff made any mystery about 
 that particular photograph? He handed back 
 the silver frame, very carefully. 
 
 "I fancy I don't really know that Auntie 
 knew your father rather well, long ago in 
 Rome. Of course you know that your father 
 and mine were tremendous chums and that the 
 mater knew him very well, too. Auntie has never 
 said much about him to me, but I know she 
 thinks no end of 'Russia.' I've heard her say 
 that Mr. Bering was one of the greatest paint- 
 ers of his century." 
 
 Isola glowed. 
 
 "I never realized that she might have known 
 Daddy well. I wish " 
 
 The sentence ended in a sigh. Robin very 
 softly laid his hand on her shoulder. 
 
 "Please, please, don't be too proud if she
 
 WHAT IS LOVE? 157 
 
 comes to see you or asks you to go and see her 1 
 Please, just for my sake, be your own lovely 
 natural self! I do so want her to know how 
 delicious you are, and, really, she's one of the 
 best! People say she's awfully haughty and 
 cold, but she isn't, deep down. She's old enough 
 to be your mother more than that, but you're 
 really very like her in many things. You two 
 would understand each other if you had a 
 
 chance." 
 
 ***** 
 
 Later on that evening, when Isola was alone 
 in her room, she drew her favorite chair to the 
 window and rested in it. 
 
 La Jeune fille de Demain began very late. It 
 was preceded by a clever little one-act piece, 
 which gave the Parisians time to dine in peace. 
 There was still an hour before she need think of 
 dressing. 
 
 It was her habit to eat very little before going 
 to the theater, but there was always a delicious 
 little supper ready for her when she returned 
 with the old servant who never failed to accom- 
 pany her to and fro. 
 
 She was resting. And she was thinking. 
 
 It had been very pleasant that afternoon with 
 Robin Underwood. He was a dear, charming 
 boy. 
 
 There were moments when she found herself
 
 158 WHAT IS LOVE 1 ? 
 
 wishing that he was her brother or her cousin 
 or some relative who had the right to take care 
 of her. 
 
 For she had no doubt about Robin's power of 
 "taking care" of any one he loved ! 
 
 And he loved her. 
 
 It was impossible to mistake the love-light in 
 his frank eyes, impossible to mistake the caress 
 of his lightest touch even of his manner in the 
 most ordinary circumstances. 
 
 He seemed to surround her with a cloud of 
 adoration. At times she enjoyed the tumultuous 
 atmosphere; at times it irritated her. She 
 wanted Robin Underwood to be near at hand 
 somewhere. She did not always want him 
 directly in her presence. He adored her, even 
 her faults ; but she could not shut her eyes to the 
 fact that he knew these little faults existed. 
 
 She turned in her chair restlessly. 
 
 Robin Underwood was delightful. But it was 
 not good for her to see much of him. He had 
 
 heaps and heaps of splendid qualities, but 
 
 Her color rose and she felt rather mean. An an- 
 swer to that "but" formed itself in her brain. 
 But he was just a little narrow-minded ! Just a 
 little too fond of thinking that women should 
 be shut in and protected. That it was not good 
 for them to strike out independently.
 
 WHAT IS LOVE? 159 
 
 It was not so much what he had said on this 
 subject as what he had looked and what she 
 knew he felt. 
 
 Again she made a restless, impatient gesture. 
 
 Robin Underwood was rather a bother ! 
 
 She found herself wishing she could dislike 
 him. But she could not ! 
 
 The moments passed. 
 
 Isola lay back in her comfortable chair and 
 gave liberty to her thoughts. 
 
 It had been a wonderful, terrible time the 
 past two weeks ! She had suffered horribly. 
 She had been overwhelmed with anxiety and 
 disappointment and amazement. Just at first 
 the woman she adored, and feared, had been 
 furiously angry with her. On the day after the 
 first night of the new piece there had been a 
 violent scene. Lery had been present so had 
 Guy de Vesian. The girl's dark eyes grew 
 suddenly brilliant as she recalled the poet's 
 attitude. He had been so diplomatic. In silence 
 he had listened to Madame Gerome's excited 
 words her incoherent accusations. With clever, 
 caustic wit he had turned aside the dramatist's 
 fierce assaults. In some mysterious way he had 
 dominated the scene! 
 
 Isola felt that she could never, never forget 
 his kindness. He had hardly looked at her.
 
 160 WHAT IS LOVE? 
 
 During the whole scene he had not addressed her, 
 directly. And yet she knew he was fighting her 
 battle. 
 
 She suddenly sat up very straight. Raising 
 her hands to her hair she pushed it back from 
 her forehead. Her face was flushed with ex- 
 citement. 
 
 He was wonderful, wonderful and oh, how 
 splendid! the idol of Paris, the central figure 
 of every assembly in which he appeared. 
 
 And he had taken the trouble to be specially 
 kind to her. 
 
 He had been interested in her ambitions in 
 her career. 
 
 Above all best of all he believed in her! 
 
 It seemed too wonderful to be true, and yet it 
 was true. For had he not said as much? 
 
 He believed in her. And she meant to show 
 him that she was worthy of that belief. She 
 meant to become a great actress like Duse, like 
 Bernhardt, like Lucienne Gerome. 
 
 She must succeed ! 
 
 She felt she would rather die than disap- 
 point him. 
 
 De Vesian's dreamy eyes seemed to look at 
 her through the gathering shadows of twilight. 
 In the silence of her little room she fancied she 
 heard his low, vibrating voice.
 
 WHAT IS LOVE ? 161 
 
 He was so wonderful ! 
 
 And so unconscious or so careless about all 
 the dreadful things that were said about him by 
 people who did not know him who could never 
 understand his artistic nature. 
 
 It made her furious to think of the rumors 
 that had reached even her ears. He had been 
 called cruel, immoral, "decadent." He was mis- 
 judged. And he never seemed to care. 
 
 But she cared. 
 
 It filled her with disgust to realize that one 
 who had so many magnificent qualities, one who 
 
 had such a heart of gold, was grossly maligned. 
 
 ***** 
 
 Some one knocked softly on the door. Isola 
 opened it. 
 
 The old servant who had been constituted her 
 theater chaperone stood outside. In her hands 
 she held a loose cluster of white lilies. There 
 was something secretive in her manner as she 
 handed them, quickly, to her young mistress. 
 
 Isola took the waxen flowers. The old woman 
 shut the door suddenly. 
 
 For several minutes the girl stood quite still. 
 Then she softly crossed to her bed and turned on 
 the electric light. 
 
 She was trembling.
 
 CHAPTER IX 
 
 JULES RIVAUD was sitting in his private 
 
 den at the Theatre Gerome. 
 
 He was leaning over a big table covered 
 with loose papers. His black velvet coat, worn 
 at the elbows, was thrown open. His "student" 
 tie in black silk was twisted into a careless bow 
 which left his brown throat bare. 
 
 He was writing spasmodically: now very 
 quickly, now with hesitation. From time to 
 time he ran his restless eyes over the pages and 
 dotted certain letters with savage emphasis. 
 Suddenly he pushed his chair from the table and 
 tilted it on the back legs. His heavy, grizzled 
 brows were knit. 
 
 "It's a d d nuisance," he said, "a d d 
 
 nuisance." 
 
 It was characteristic of the man that he should 
 express himself in nervous English, since he was 
 thinking of an English-speaking nation. He was 
 cosmopolitan in every sense of the word and 
 master of half a dozen languages. 
 
 With a gesture of impatience he leaned his 
 
 hands on the table and swayed backwards and 
 
 forwards. Then he brought his fist down on the 
 
 papers with a bang. A second later he was 
 
 162
 
 WHAT IS LOVE 163 
 
 extracting no uncertain sound from a telephone 
 bell. 
 
 "Mile. Bering is still here? Yes? Ask her 
 to come to me for a moment." 
 
 With a methodical sweep of the hand he 
 gathered the papers together. He took out a 
 leather case, selected a big cigar, lit it, and 
 leaned back. His full, steel-gray eyes seemed 
 bulging with malicious intelligence. Something 
 of a grim smile crossed his full lips. He ran the 
 fingers of his left hand through his crisp hair. 
 It made a little crackling sound. 
 
 Just then the door opened and Isola looked in. 
 
 "You sent for me, Monsieur Jules?" 
 
 He half rose and nodded. 
 
 "Entrez, Mademoiselle! I have one or two 
 things to say to you." 
 
 Isola closed the door and came forward. She 
 was looking lovely, almost pathetically youthful, 
 in a clinging dress of some soft white stuff. 
 The day was warm. There had been a long re- 
 hearsal of a new piece which Rivaud wanted for 
 the proposed tour in the States. The girl was 
 tired. 
 
 Rivaud pointed to a chair on the opposite side 
 of his writing-table. For several minutes he 
 sat and looked at her, in silence. Isola flushed. 
 
 "Something has gone wrong again?" She
 
 164 WHAT IS LOVE ? 
 
 spoke fearfully. The man shrugged his broad 
 shoulders. 
 
 "Chi lo sa ?" 
 
 He continued to stare at her, and as he stared 
 he passed his hand over his thick beard. 
 
 "I wonder! I wonder very much!" 
 
 He stopped short. The girl's eyes filled with 
 tears. 
 
 "Yes?" she said tremulously. "Something 
 about me?" 
 
 He nodded. 
 
 "What is it?" 
 
 In a way Isola was less afraid of Jules Rivaud 
 than of any one else intimately connected with 
 the theater. He had been kind to her, in his 
 own queer, rough way. He had given her a 
 helping hand again and again while seeming to 
 find fault. She had an instinctive feeling that 
 he liked her. 
 
 The hot tears, born of nervous tension, dis- 
 appeared. She smiled bravely. 
 
 "I have done something wrong? Please tell 
 me." 
 
 Rivaud laughed. 
 
 "Some one has done something 'wrong,' but 
 I'm not sure that you're the culprit this time ! 
 Some one has allowed a sensitive, romantic little 
 girl to feed upon her imagination ! Now I won- 
 der who that some one was ? Not your father,
 
 WHAT IS LOVE ? 165 
 
 that I know, since he died when you were a baby. 
 Not your mother certainly not your little Pur- 
 itan aunt. Who then?" 
 
 "Feed upon my imagination?" 
 
 "Yes!" 
 
 "You mean?" 
 
 The girl was leaning forward over the table. 
 Her breath was uneven. The flush was mount- 
 ing higher and higher. 
 
 "You mean?" she repeated. 
 
 "I mean that I should very much like to know 
 what influence turned your attention to the stage 
 as a profession ; what, exactly, made you think 
 of becoming an actress." 
 
 "Madame Bernhardt ! I saw her play in 
 'Adrienne', in Vienna four years ago. From 
 that moment I knew that there was just one 
 thing in the world for me " 
 
 "The stage here in Paris?" 
 
 Rivaud puffed out a great cloud of smoke. 
 His lips curled back from his extraordinarily 
 white teeth. It was more like the snarl of a lion 
 than a human laugh, but the girl knew he did not 
 mean to be unkind. She looked down on her 
 clasped hands. 
 
 "I never thought of any other stage." 
 
 "I see. And because Bernhardt played 
 Adrienne effectively you imagined that you, in 
 turn, could do likewise eh?"
 
 166 WHAT IS LOVE <? 
 
 "Monsieur Jules!" 
 
 She looked very young and helpless, but the 
 manager only laughed again. 
 
 "Well wasn't that about it? Didn't you run 
 away home and learn to speak Adrienne's 
 words? Didn't you posture and prance before 
 a looking-glass ? Didn't you die many deaths 
 in many different attitudes each one more 
 pathetic than the last? Come now, didn't you 
 do just that, a peu pres?" 
 
 She managed to smile. 
 
 "Yes. I think so, more or less." 
 
 "Of course. And it was natural. You saw 
 fine results and you envied them. It never oc- 
 curred to you to sit down and think out just how 
 these results had been obtained?" 
 
 "Of course I always knew it meant a life's 
 study all one's life." 
 
 She spoke quickly and with decision. She 
 could not bear that he, of all men, should sup- 
 pose she had dashed into a profession without 
 thought. Rivaud did not seem impressed. He 
 continued to smoke vigorously. 
 
 After a silence, exquisitely painful to the girl, 
 she mustered up courage. 
 
 "Monsieur Jules please be quite frank with 
 me. You know everything. Have I improved ? 
 Am I really making progress ? Can I succeed 
 in the end "
 
 WHAT IS LOVE ? 167 
 
 The words came out in a rush. Many, many 
 times the girl had longed for courage, or oppor- 
 tunity, to speak them. She so longed to know 
 the truth ; and yet she feared it. Rivaud looked 
 at her steadily. 
 
 "You want to know if I think you're likely to 
 make a success on the French stage? My dear 
 young lady, that's a question which I have put to 
 myself pretty often, lately. You've puzzled me. 
 That's why I sent for you to-day." 
 
 "Puzzled you?" 
 
 "Yes! Just at first I thought of you as a 
 pretty girl with some talent, who might be made 
 useful for a time and who would certainly chuck 
 it all up, as they say in England, and marry. 
 Now I begin to have doubts. I think you imagine 
 you have found a vocation really imagine it. 
 I think you have it in your mind to stick to the 
 work." 
 
 "But of course!" 
 
 Isola spoke indignantly: almost violently. 
 Rivaud waved his hand. 
 
 "Don't get excited. We've thrown the cards 
 down on the table and we're going to examine 
 their faces ! You want to make a big success on 
 the French stage. Are you prepared to make 
 big, very big, sacrifices? Are you prepared to 
 give up your friends, pretty well all of them? 
 Are you prepared to trample on the traditions
 
 168 WHAT IS LOVE "? 
 
 which have surrounded you all your life? Are 
 you prepared to put your art before public opin- 
 ion, before the teachings of your religion? Do 
 you realize that on our stage an actress belongs, 
 body and soul, to the public ? She may be idol- 
 ized, spoiled, pelted with roses and pearls 
 what you will : but none the less she is the chattel 
 of the public. It's her business to give that pub- 
 lic a thousand varied emotions. She must make 
 it realize love and hate and jealousy and fury 
 and despair. And before she can make 
 her public realize any one of these emotions she 
 must realize them herself. In France we are 
 obsessed by one special body of emotions those 
 which frame our god 'Amour!' Without an in- 
 timate knowledge a personal knowledge of 
 the various conjugations of the verb 'Aimer' no 
 actress could hope to make anything of a success 
 in this country. And what do you know of this 
 verb, my pretty little sentimentalist ? What are 
 you ever likely to know of it beyond the love 
 of Juliet? Perhaps of Adrienne in certain 
 moods? But there were sides to Adrienne 
 Lecouvreur's character that would always re- 
 main mysteries to you. You might, probably 
 would, succeed if special roles were written for 
 you, but we don't run our theaters on those lines 
 in Paris. The player must adapt himself, or 
 herself, to the play not the other way about*
 
 WHAT IS LOVE 169 
 
 We aren't a very moral nation, but we have our 
 own ideas about Art, and we're thoroughly con- 
 servative where they're concerned. You mustn't 
 depend on having plays written round your 
 charming, I admit, personality. You must be 
 prepared to mould that personality into the 
 shape demanded by the play no matter what 
 that shape may be!" 
 
 He laughed roughly and leaned back. There 
 were a hundred and one things he wanted to say 
 to this girl, but something in her eyes made him 
 hesitate. 
 
 She was an extraordinary mixture! Full of 
 emotion, warm and passionate, yet curiously, 
 wonderfully fresh. 
 
 He threw away the stump of his cigar and 
 lighted another. 
 
 Isola watched him. Her heart was throbbing 
 furiously. Was he going to say that she had no 
 real talent? 
 
 There was silence. Then Rivaud leaned for- 
 ward and patted one of her little white hands. 
 
 "I never had a daughter, but if I had one like 
 you, do you know what I should say to her?" 
 He stared into her frightened eyes and laughed 
 softly. "I should say: 'Run away, my dear 
 little girl, and get married ! Get married to some 
 big, strong, young fellow who has plenty of 
 money and who will take good care of you all
 
 iyo WHAT IS LOVE ? 
 
 the days of your life!' And deep down in my 
 gizzard I should pray that the young man might 
 be either an Englishman or an American!" 
 
 He spoke in much solemnity. Isola suddenly 
 broke into laughter. 
 
 "I don't want to marry just yet, Monsieur 
 Jules! And when I do marry I don't think it 
 will be an Englishman or even an American !" 
 
 "Frenchmen of good position don't marry 
 actresses never overlook that fact. And shall I 
 tell you why?" 
 
 He paused a single second. Then the tempta- 
 tion to cut down deep overcame him. 
 
 "Because not one Frenchman in a thousand 
 would believe that an actress was the kind of 
 woman he could make his wife introduce to his 
 family!" 
 
 "Monsieur Jules !" 
 
 His laugh was not pleasant. 
 
 "Quite true, I assure you. We pelt our pretty 
 players with pearls but we don't marry them! 
 And our society women don't receive them, ex- 
 cept as paid entertainers ! Perhaps it isn't quite 
 fair, but it's a fact." 
 
 "Why are you saying all this to me now?" 
 Tears stood in the girl's eyes, but she made no 
 attempt to brush them aside. She was beyond 
 caring for such trifles. 
 
 "Because you seem curiously alone, for a girl
 
 WHAT IS LOVE ? 171 
 
 who has the right to go into society. I don't 
 know how it has happened, but it seems to me 
 you've no one to give a word of sound advice. 
 It's not my business, but all the same I don't like 
 to see a small fish sailing calmly into a net 
 without knowing that the net is in existence." 
 
 "'A net'?" 
 
 It was clear that she was bewildered. Rivaud 
 smothered an oath. 
 
 "Yes ! You're an attractive little creature. I 
 don't say that an experience a whole series of 
 experiences if it comes to that mightn't make 
 a capable actress of you, but I don't think you'd 
 come out of the tangle a happy young woman! 
 You're not the type for such experiences, petite. 
 You're incurably romantic and you're sensitive. 
 And then you're your father's daughter! I 
 never saw much of him, but I knew his uncle 
 fairly well, and many an evening I spent at your 
 flat in the Rue de Douai in the old days. You 
 come of the wrong stock for success on our stage, 
 and that's why I advise you to 'chuck it' and to 
 marry that fine young Englishman or Ameri- 
 can I mentioned a moment ago. Success would 
 cost you too much. You wouldn't find it worth 
 while." 
 
 Isola looked at him intently. Her eyes were 
 very bright. Two red spots burned in her 
 cheeks.
 
 172 WHAT IS LOVE <? 
 
 "You think I am bound to be a failure? You 
 don't believe in me? But Monsieur de Vesian 
 does. He thinks I have real talent he has told 
 me so. He thinks that in time I may become 
 quite celebrated " 
 
 "De Vesian bed d!" 
 
 Rivaud spoke roughly. He felt curiously 
 angry with himself for having been such a fool 
 as to play the part of bon Papa to a wilful girl. 
 
 With de Vesian for ? 
 
 Almost rudely he leaned forward and took up 
 his papers. 
 
 "Never mind. You'll have to learn your les- 
 son by yourself. That's the rule of life and 
 it's no use bringing about exceptions. You want 
 to be a 'great actress'? Well, you'll have to 
 work pretty hard and you'll have to offer up 
 sacrifices at the shrine of the god of the French- 
 man ! I've given you a pretty broad hint take 
 it or leave it." 
 
 He took up his pen as if to show that the 
 interview was ended, but Isola was too excited 
 to be diplomatic. With a little rush she came to 
 his side. 
 
 "Monsieur Jules! Monsieur Jules please 
 don't be angry with me. Indeed, I'm more than 
 grateful for all your kindness, but I don't quite 
 know what you mean. Surely Monsieur de 
 Vesian is a judge? And what object could he
 
 WHAT IS LOVE ? 173 
 
 have had in saying anything that was not true 
 tome?" 
 
 The big man sat square in his chair and stared 
 at her. For a full minute his keen eyes ques- 
 tioned hers. Then he smiled. 
 
 "Our famous poet is an excellent judge of 
 beauty ! He also knows something of good act- 
 ing. At the same time I'm of opinion that my 
 advice, so far as you are concerned, is of more 
 value than his, and my advice is chuck it and 
 marry, right now ! You're pretty and clever, but 
 the Theatre Gerome won't shut its doors on your 
 wedding-day. We could do without you if we 
 tried! I'm not at all sure that you could do 
 without the right to make a curtsy to royalty, 
 shall we say?" 
 
 He was smiling grimly, but his manner was 
 very kindly. Isola stretched out her hand and 
 touched his arm. 
 
 "I don't want to marry, Monsieur Jules. And 
 I do want to become a real, real artist. Won't 
 you help me? Indeed I'll work hard. I'll do 
 everything you and Madame Lucienne tell me 
 you won't find me a bit of trouble. Please 
 help me." 
 
 Jules Rivaud was a man who had the charac- 
 ter of being absolutely without scruples where 
 business was concerned. He was honest, as men 
 of business count honesty, but he never let senti-
 
 174 WHAT IS LOVE * 
 
 ment stand in his way. He was "hard as nails," 
 yet, at that moment, he was touched. The 
 thought of making a second Lucienne Gerome, 
 without Gerome's genius, of this little girl dis- 
 gusted him. 
 
 Gerome had risen from the gutter. She had 
 had nothing to lose, everything to gain. This 
 child had much to lose. 
 
 He knew a good deal about her parentage, 
 her possible friends, about Robin Underwood! 
 She had very much to lose and for what ? Dis- 
 illusion for of a certainty she still cherished 
 impossible, highly romantic ideas about life on 
 the stage disillusion, and worse. 
 
 For there was Guy de Vesian, and behind de 
 Vesian Lucienne Gerome, deserted, frantic, 
 eager for revenge. 
 
 There was silence. 
 
 Then Rivaud spoke again. 
 
 "Make an opportunity of asking Lucienne 
 Gerome what she thinks about your chances. 
 Get her to advise you, if she will. She has been 
 through the mill. Half a dozen words from her 
 would be more useful to you than a volume of 
 poems by our friend de Vesian." 
 
 His heavy eyebrows had a trick of running up 
 at the outer corners when he was amused. They
 
 WHAT IS LOVE ? 17$ 
 
 did so now. And yet there was something of 
 apprehension in the eyes themselves. 
 
 "Hard as nails." 
 
 Yes, that was true. All the same he wished 
 the dark-eyed girl's father was still alive. It 
 was a beastly world for young things of her type. 
 He had been a fool to undertake the thankless 
 role of bon Papa. Old age must be creeping on ! 
 
 He knew the girl was looking at him in eager 
 question, but he pretended to be busy with his 
 letters. 
 
 A second later she went out very quietly.
 
 CHAPTER X 
 
 OEVERAL days had passed, but Isola had 
 O not found the opportunity for asking Lu- 
 cienne Gerome's advice, as she half wished, half 
 feared, to do. 
 
 She had seen the actress each morning, and 
 of course each evening; but somehow, Isola 
 felt it was intentional, they were never alone 
 together, they always seemed surrounded by a 
 restless crowd. Never had the great artist been 
 more irritable more exacting more, at times, 
 violent. 
 
 The atmosphere at the Theatre Gerome 
 teemed with germs of unrest. The girl's nerves 
 seemed suddenly to have become raw. 
 
 Once, in speaking to Robin Underwood, she 
 compared them to her arm at the moment of the 
 second vaccination, a few years before. 
 
 "One felt that if the doctor touched that par- 
 ticular spot just once more one would have to 
 scream !" 
 
 And Robin had understood. 
 
 Love had done wonderful things for the boy. 
 It had given him an amazing supply of patience, 
 and it had given him, to a marked degree, the 
 priceless gift of understanding. 
 176
 
 WHAT IS LOVE ? 177 
 
 Again and again Isola had unconsciously 
 turned to him for sympathy, silent or spoken: 
 and the marvel of it was that the boy found it 
 possible to give that sympathy in abundance 
 without betraying too much of his warmer feel- 
 ings. 
 
 He had entered into partnership with the 
 small blind god, and Cupid, in serious mood, had 
 taught him the wisdom of the serpent. It was to 
 be a waiting game. Very well she should see 
 
 that he knew how to wait. 
 
 ***** 
 
 Several times Isola and her aunt had been 
 whirled away to the Bois in Robin's big red 
 Daimler, and had had tea in one of the shady 
 restaurants in the heart of the wood. 
 
 Delicious afternoons. 
 
 Free from anxiety or care, free from any ele- 
 ment that might induce discontent, Isola had 
 thoroughly enjoyed them. And the little quiet 
 aunt? It seemed to the girl that this was a new- 
 born aunt some one who was almost a stranger 
 to her, but who seemed on the best of terms with 
 Robin. It was a sort of wonderful transforma- 
 tion. She often found herself furtively study- 
 ing the slender, fragile figure in soft grey cash- 
 mere; the pretty, silky hair, so demurely drawn 
 back from the face ; the pathetic blue eyes set in
 
 178 WHAT IS LOVE <? 
 
 fringes of black lashes. It was Aunt Jessica; 
 but a happy Aunt Jessica. 
 
 Isola felt a little flush of shame mounting to 
 her cheeks when she remembered that she had 
 brought very little real happiness into that 
 lonely life. 
 
 Mrs. Underwood had gone to Deauville for a 
 week with Princess Borizoff. It was the dead 
 season at that gay little plage, but the Princess 
 was fond of the sea, and she preferred it when it 
 was not cumbered with modern mermaids in 
 startling suits composed of a yard or two of red 
 or white taffetas. 
 
 Robin had elected to remain on at the Con- 
 tinental, and his mother had fallen in with his 
 wishes, since it would have been ridiculous to do 
 otherwise. She had a vague suspicion that her 
 old friend Gabrielle Borizoff was, in some way, 
 "backing up" her boy. And yet the Princess 
 had never mentioned Isola Dering since that one 
 memorable conversation in the salon overlooking 
 the rose-framed terrace. 
 
 Mrs. Underwood felt restless and irritable. 
 The thought of a quiet week at the sea appealed 
 to her. 
 
 That particular afternoon the tooting of 
 Robin's motor-horn in the Rue de Douai reached 
 Jessica Bering's ears through folds of fine linen
 
 WHAT IS LOVE ? 179 
 
 saturated with eau de Cologne. She was lying 
 down in her room; her head was aching vio- 
 lently. 
 
 A moment later Isola came in on tip-toe. She 
 approached the little white bed. 
 
 "It's Robin Underwood, Aunt Jessica. Shall 
 I tell him to go?" 
 
 Miss Bering raised her head a little. She 
 looked up straight into her niece's face, and 
 noted that the girl was pale that she seemed 
 nervous. She smiled as she sank back. 
 
 "He wanted us to go out? Well why not 
 go with him for an hour or two ? It would do 
 you good. He's such a dear, nice boy. I don't 
 like to disappoint him." 
 
 Isola hesitated. Then she nodded her head. 
 
 "Very well, Aunt if you really wish it." 
 Again she paused. Then she bent over the pros- 
 trate figure and renewed the eau de Cologne 
 bandage. Her touch was very gentle. Miss 
 Bering raised her hand and touched the girl's 
 lovely face. For a second two pairs of eyes 
 questioned each other. Isola bent lower and 
 kissed her. 
 
 "We won't be long. He talks of tea at 
 Armenonville, but I don't know. We'll see!" 
 
 Miss Bering made a gesture of assent as she 
 turned on her pillow and closed her eyes. Her 
 lips moved. She was praying.
 
 i8o WHAT IS LOVE ? 
 
 ***** 
 
 The first week in June! 
 
 The Bois de Boulogne was dressed in its best. 
 
 It was too early in the summer season for the 
 trees to have lost their young-green charm. The 
 grass was like a carpet of emerald velvet. In the 
 broad avenues brilliant rays of sunlight were 
 breaking through interlaced branches and cast- 
 ing mysterious designs, vaguely Japanese, on the 
 dry earth. The air seemed filled with warmth 
 and perfume. The sky was clear a great, calm 
 dome of illimitable blue. 
 
 Serenity reigned. 
 
 While the big red car was silently whirling 
 through the streets down the Rue Blanche 
 the historic Chaussee d' Antin the Avenue de 
 1'Opera and on, on through the Place de la 
 Concorde and Champs Elysees, Isola had been 
 strangely silent. 
 
 Robin also had been silent. 
 
 But the silence of the boy bore no relationship 
 to the silence of the girl. The little cunning 
 spirit of speech had tentatively visited Isola and 
 had been repulsed because she was restless and 
 unhappy. 
 
 It had been repulsed by Robin because he was 
 gloriously, tumultuously happy. 
 
 She was there close beside him his Queen of
 
 WHAT IS LOVE <? 181 
 
 Queens his pearl of great price his beloved. 
 She was close beside him, and they had a long 
 afternoon before them! 
 
 He was trying very hard to be immensely 
 discreet; to avoid the slightest word that might 
 put her on her guard; to talk carelessly on gen- 
 eral subjects. And so, with deep craft, to set 
 a trap into which she might oh, heavenly 
 thought wander, later on. 
 
 He was bubbling over with fun and high 
 spirits. He talked incessantly. Now and then 
 he deliberately looked out at the flying houses 
 and trees, for fear that she might see, and un- 
 derstand, the blaze of love-light in his eyes. 
 
 Quite openly he had instructed the chauffeur 
 a well-trained servant, who had been in his 
 father's service to "make a little tour of the 
 Bois" before pulling up at Armenonville. And 
 Isola had silently acquiesced. It was a relief to 
 her to fly swiftly through the soft air. Robin's 
 ceaseless flow of words gave her an excuse for 
 silence. 
 
 The chauffeur chose the route which led past 
 the racecourse of Auteuil. When they were at 
 Boulogne sur Seine Robin turned to his compan- 
 ion almost abruptly. 
 
 "Shall we get out and walk a little? It's nice
 
 182 WHAT IS LOVE ? 
 
 and quiet just here. We have lots or time be- 
 fore tea." 
 
 Isola had been dreaming. She looked at him 
 with startled eyes. Then she nodded and 
 laughed. 
 
 "I should like it," she said. 
 
 That corner of the Bois was comparatively 
 deserted. Spreading branches of rugged trees 
 shaded the paths through the wood. Here and 
 there one came on sweet wild glades filled with 
 sun-flecked shadows. Near the fortifications 
 there were emerald slopes which still retained 
 their spring mantles. It was a glorious after- 
 noon. Nature seemed to smile upon her handi- 
 work; and it was a smile of contentment. 
 
 They strolled along slowly. For some time 
 neither spoke. Now and then Robin stole a 
 furtive glance at the girl's face. It seemed to' 
 him that never, even in the longest life, could he 
 cease to marvel at its loveliness. She was full of 
 radiance. She was like a tall lily. Or was she 
 not more like a perfect white rose, unfolding its 
 mysterious petals under the caresses of an ardent 
 sun ? Lily or rose she was exquisite ! far, 
 far more than exquisite. She was overwhelm- 
 ingly lovable. 
 
 A flight of little blue butterflies brushed past 
 the girl's face. She stood still to give the tur- 
 quoise marvels passage. One of them landed
 
 WHAT IS LOVE ? 183 
 
 lightly on her arm quivered its wings and 
 then hastened after its comrades. Isola looked 
 after it, laughing softly. 
 
 "Don't you envy them? More beautiful than 
 any human creature on this earth and free ! 
 free as the air!" 
 
 The boy drew a little nearer. 
 
 "You set such a high value on freedom?" 
 
 "Of course ! Nothing really matters if one is 
 free. Nothing has any real value if one is in a 
 cage." 
 
 "In a cage?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 There was something defiant in her voice. 
 Robin looked straight before him. 
 
 "I wonder what you mean when you speak of 
 being 'free' ? What do you mean, deep down in 
 your heart?" 
 
 He was not looking at her, but Isola knew 
 there was an anxious expression in his eyes. She 
 threw back her head defiantly. 
 
 "I think every woman ought to be allowed the 
 freedom of a man to take or leave as she 
 thought best. I've never been able to understand 
 why we, girls and women, are treated as slaves, 
 why we have to fight for our freedom, and why 
 we are blamed if we do fight." 
 
 There was a tinge of hot color in her cheeks.
 
 184 WHAT IS LOVE ? 
 
 She was getting excited. Robin looked straight 
 into her eyes. 
 
 "Slaves? I like that! And what about us? 
 Aren't we your abject, willing slaves? Aren't we 
 ready to fetch and carry and to submit to a 
 thousand and one delightful caprices? fem- 
 inine caprices, Mademoiselle please remember 
 that!" 
 
 He looked so comically distressed that Isola 
 had to laugh. She opened her white silk parasol 
 and held it so that soft shadows fell on her face. 
 
 "Oh oh that's beside the question. You 
 men are slaves, of a sort, when you're in love. 
 That's to say, when you're very much in love !" 
 
 "Well?" 
 
 She laughed maliciously. 
 
 " 'Well?' When you're not in love you 
 aren't slaves ! That problem isn't very compli- 
 cated." 
 
 "I think it's a jolly lot more complicated than 
 you make out. And it isn't a question of slavery 
 at all. It's a question of Love!" 
 
 " 'Love' ?" She glanced at him through 
 lowered lashes. "What is Love? That's a 
 difficult question if you like ! So difficult that I 
 very much doubt if Monsieur Robin Underwood 
 could answer it satisfactorily!" 
 
 He pulled up suddenly. Isola found herself 
 forced to stand still.
 
 WHAT IS LOVE ? 185 
 
 There was a moment's silence. Then Robin 
 said: 
 
 "You're a queer girl. You said the other day 
 you didn't want us to discuss intimate subjects, 
 and now you ask me about Love! All right! 
 You've started the subject, and this time we'll 
 talk it out. You ask me 'What is Love?' I 
 heard one of the big French painters say, the 
 other day in Auntie's salon, that 'Love is the 
 soul of life,' and that's about the truth. At any 
 rate, it's the thing that makes life worth living, 
 and would make dying a sort of joke, since Love 
 goes on living on the other side of the Valley. 
 Love is just the one thing worth while the 
 thing that makes a man worship and adore a 
 woman when she's no longer beautiful to out- 
 siders, that makes him cling to her and want 
 her when she's no longer young when silly fools 
 who only care for bright eyes and pink cheeks 
 don't trouble to look at her any more. Love is 
 what a man feels for his mate, and what a 
 woman feels for her mate. It's a mysterious, 
 glorious thing that has a body and a soul and 
 plenty of intelligence. It's no more blind than 
 I'm blind. It sees faults, if faults exist, but it 
 loves them all the time." 
 
 He was breathless. His face was radiant with 
 excitement and hope. Unconsciously he came
 
 186 WHAT IS LOVE ? 
 
 close to the girl's side, and laid his hand on her 
 arm. Isola drew back. 
 
 "How romantic you are! And how impossibly 
 sentimental ! Who taught you all that nonsense 
 about Love ? Are the good folks of Devonshire 
 as primitive as all that?" 
 
 She was laughing, but the color on her cheeks 
 had deepened. Robin devoured her with glow- 
 ing eyes. 
 
 " 'Primitive' be hanged ! I beg your pardon, 
 but really you're very irritating. And you do it 
 on purpose to get my temper up." He stopped 
 short. Then he laughed. "I say don't let us 
 talk nonsense let us talk about ourselves. I 
 believe in Love, and I'm proud of my belief. 
 You believe in it, but you pretend you don't. 
 That's the difference between us. But whether 
 you admit your belief or not, you know very well 
 that real Love is a special gift of the Almighty, 
 and that when the fire of Love is set alight be- 
 tween two souls, the little flames stretching out 
 and touching both, no power in Heaven or on 
 earth can extinguish that fire. You know it, 
 Isola ! You know it better than you know any- 
 thing else. You know that I shall love and 
 worship and adore you until the day when you 
 close my eyes in death or I close yours. We 
 two were made for each other. And we two 
 are going to live our lives together no matter
 
 WHAT IS LOVE ? 187 
 
 what you may say or think, now. It's certain 
 absolutely certain. I love you every bit of 
 you your mouth, your hair, your dear, mis- 
 chievous eyes. I'm your man, your mate, your 
 husband, your slave, if you will. It was all 
 settled before we ever set eyes on each other. 
 We are powerless. You want to gain time all 
 right. I can wait. But mind you, I am waiting 
 all the time. And I shall go on waiting until 
 you come to see that you can't get on very well 
 without me until you want me as I want you." 
 
 "Oh please don't." 
 
 She was really distressed. In a second Robin's 
 face changed. He became penitent. 
 
 "Look here I'm awfully sorry. Never mind 
 what I've been saying. Don't let it worry you. 
 I can wait. Only, sometimes it seems pretty 
 hard." 
 
 He walked on rapidly a few steps. Isola 
 looked after him. She hated to hurt him, and 
 yet it was impossible! 
 
 They had reached a point where two long 
 paths crossed. She stood still under the shadow 
 of a drooping willow. 
 
 Robin turned and looked at her. Then very 
 quickly he retraced his steps. 
 
 "Isola !" He caught her hands and held them 
 against his breast. "Haven't you found out the 
 truth yet ? Haven't you realized that you love
 
 i88 WHAT IS LOVE ? 
 
 me? That you, the very real and loveliest you, 
 want me to hold you in my arms and to take care 
 of you all the rest of our lives ? Don't you feel 
 that yet?" 
 
 There was so much anxiety, so much yearning 
 in his voice that she felt conscience-stricken. 
 For a second she hesitated. He was delightful. 
 She felt quite safe when she was with him. A 
 delicious veil of color fell on her creamy cheeks. 
 
 Robin held his breath. 
 
 In that golden silence mysterious sounds of 
 life, amongst the emerald grasses, made them- 
 selves felt. Far up in the shadowy branches 
 some birds were chirping gaily. 
 
 It was a deserted corner of the great Bois. 
 They were alone. 
 
 Hope began to unfold its silvery wings. The 
 boy's heart was beating wildly. 
 
 One of his brown hands stole out and cap- 
 tured a little white prisoner. 
 
 "Isola!" 
 
 The spell was broken. Very quietly, but with 
 intention, she withdrew her hand. 
 
 "No. No really I don't feel like that. I 
 like you ever so much, but love? No." 
 
 His strong young face grew suddenly white. 
 A miserable, baffled look flashed into his blue 
 eyes. For a second he seemed beaten.
 
 WHAT IS LOVE <? 189 
 
 Then the old supreme confidence stole back 
 into face and manner. 
 
 "I'm sorry," he said. "Please forgive me. 
 I really didn't mean to worry you to-day, but 
 you're so lovely you tempted me ! A case of 
 a modern Adam and Eve in a 1912 Garden 
 of Eden, you know!" He laughed rather 
 nervously. Isola looked at him. 
 
 "I am sorry really, but I can't help it. You 
 wanted me to speak the truth didn't you?" 
 
 "Rather ! And it doesn't really matter I can 
 wait. I can go on waiting like that chap in the 
 Bible, but I'm hanged if I'll have the wrong 
 woman handed over to me in the end as he 
 had." 
 
 He was trying to speak carelessly, but Isola 
 felt the restraint in his voice. Her color 
 deepened. 
 
 "Please don't talk of 'waiting.' It would be 
 quite quite useless. I am wedded to my pro- 
 fession. I shall have to give up my whole life 
 to it. I want to think of that and nothing else." 
 
 "You want to go on being an actress here in 
 Paris all your life?" 
 
 She nodded. 
 
 With a fierce gesture Robin dug the point of 
 his cane into the ground. It was horrible ! Ab- 
 solutely horrible! He was young, but he was 
 no fool. Education and personal tastes had
 
 190 WHAT IS LOVE ? 
 
 supplied him with singularly clean views of life. 
 Nevertheless he knew very well that it had an 
 unclean side. Ever since his father's death he 
 had been accustomed to travelling constantly on 
 the Continent with his mother. Paris was as 
 familiar to him as London. In Princess Bori- 
 zoff's salons he had met some of the wittiest and 
 least moral Frenchmen of the day. He had 
 heard them talk. More than that he had often 
 seen them soil a woman's character definitely 
 with a single glance. 
 
 He knew the grand monde of Paris very well 
 indeed. 
 
 He knew how it regarded its artistes. 
 
 It was utterly horrible to realize that in a few 
 years' time people might talk of his Queen of 
 Girls as they now talked of Lucienne Gerome; 
 that she his peerless Isola might in time 
 become common property; that her photographs 
 might be purchased by every lewd reptile who 
 soiled the Boulevards by his presence. 
 
 It was horrible. 
 
 But what was to be done? 
 
 He traced a deep rut in the path with his cane. 
 Isola watched him furtively. 
 
 It seemed to her that this was a new Robin 
 Underwood. In some subtle way he had
 
 WHAT IS LOVE 191 
 
 changed. He seemed suddenly to have become 
 a man. 
 
 Very quietly she came close to his side. 
 
 "Truly truly I am sorry. And please don't 
 talk of 'waiting' it would be useless." 
 
 He looked very tall and straight as he stood 
 before her. There was a flame of excitement in 
 his eyes. 
 
 "Wait? Of course I shall wait and go on 
 waiting until you're ready. You belong to me. 
 You were made for me. Long ago, when I was 
 only a kid, I used to think about the girl I meant 
 to marry, and she always had your eyes your 
 hair your face. I tell you we were made for 
 each other, and you talk of not 'waiting.' ' 
 
 His manner was violent. There was a hoarse 
 ring in his voice which she had never heard 
 before. 
 
 For a minute they stood and looked at each 
 other. 
 
 Then Robin's face cleared. 
 
 "Poor little girl you're frightened? Never 
 mind. I'm a dogged sort of chap bull-dog 
 type, you know. I can't be choked off, but I'll 
 try not be too great a bother. What do you 
 say to tea at Armenonville ?" 
 
 The sudden change of tone bewildered her. 
 She tried to smile. Two tears rolled slowly
 
 192 WHAT IS LOVE ? 
 
 down her flushed cheeks. Robin drew out a 
 handkerchief and gently wiped them away. 
 
 "Poor little girl," he repeated softly. "I see 
 you must have your fling. You're in love with 
 life on the stage as you see it in your imagina- 
 tion. Well I can wait until your eyes are 
 opened to realities. That poor chap, Jacob, 
 served seven years why not I? Only at the 
 end of my seven years I'll get hold of the right 
 young woman you may be sure of that I"
 
 CHAPTER XI 
 
 MRS. UNDERWOOD had always stayed 
 at the Hotel Continental when she visited 
 Paris. She had stayed there when she was 
 married to Charlie Waring : afterwards she had 
 stayed there with her second husband, James 
 Underwood. 
 
 In a way it seemed like home. 
 
 Since she became a widow for the second time 
 she and her only son had visited Paris two or 
 three times every year. They both liked the 
 famous Ville de Lumiere, and Mrs. Underwood 
 had hosts of friends who were always "passing 
 through," en route for the South; or for Vienna 
 or St. Petersburg, or any of those other desirable 
 places which have to be approached via Paris. 
 
 She had spent a pleasant, but not particularly 
 restful, week at Deauville with Princess Borizoff. 
 She had enjoyed it but she had been very glad 
 to get back. Her old friend had been rather 
 tiresome. It had been impossible to understand 
 her. Mrs. Underwood had been aware, all 
 through her visit, that her hostess was studying 
 her, in a rather malicious way. They had been, 
 
 of course, on the best of terms yet Mrs, 
 
 Underwood was glad to get back to Paris and 
 to Robin. 
 
 193
 
 194 WHAT IS LOVE ? 
 
 Mother and son were sitting in the vestibule 
 after dinner. 
 
 Robin was smoking a cigarette. His long legs 
 were stretched out, and he had tilted back his 
 chair slightly. He swayed to and fro as he 
 watched the restless human butterflies who flitted 
 by in the direction of the bureau to search for 
 letters in the direction of the reading-room in 
 search of newspapers and flirtations. 
 
 The season was at its height. Paris was 
 crowded. 
 
 Some of the American girls gliding by, 
 gowned by Worth and Paquin, were quite lovely. 
 Nearly all of them glanced slyly at the tall youth 
 with the frank blue eyes and crisp hair. Some- 
 times a pretty woman stopped and exchanged a 
 few careless words with Mrs. Underwood while 
 flickering effective eyelashes at Robin. "He has 
 such nice little ways!" All Clio Underwood's 
 friends said that. And it really was the truth. 
 Robin's "little ways" were as spontaneous as 
 they were attractive. He was a universal fa- 
 vorite : with men and women alike. 
 
 His mother was looking very distinguished, 
 and surprisingly young, in a mysteriously simple 
 gown of black lace. She was wearing a large 
 "picture" hat, and at her breast there was a 
 cluster of soft pink roses a gift from her de- 
 voted cavalier. She was still a beautiful and at-
 
 WHAT IS LOVE ? 195 
 
 tractive woman, but it pleased her to speak of 
 herself as a "have-been" ! With fine disregard 
 for grammar she had been heard to say "A 
 widow two times over has no right to be frisky." 
 
 People were driving off to the theaters. The 
 vestibule was still rather crowded, but the inner 
 rooms seemed almost empty. 
 
 Mrs. Underwood leaned forward and looked 
 through an open glass-door. 
 
 "I should like a cup of tea to-night, instead of 
 coffee. And shall we have it in the Moorish 
 room? This place is stifling." Robin nodded. 
 He signalled a waiter : then he strolled through 
 the reading-room after his mother. He had a 
 suspicion that she wanted to speak to him rather 
 seriously. Something in her manner all through 
 dinner had made him a trifle nervous. All the 
 same it would be better to "have it out." 
 
 The Moorish room was empty. Mrs. Under- 
 wood drew the long pins from her hat and threw 
 it down on a divan. Robin was standing over 
 her. With deft fingers he fluffed out the silky 
 hair and made it frame the little oval face. His 
 mother looked up and smiled. She lowered her 
 lids quickly, but he had time to see that there 
 were tears in her beautiful brown eyes. 
 
 "Why mater!" 
 
 He laid one of his strong brown hands on her
 
 196 WHAT IS LOVE ? 
 
 arm. "Mater?" She shook her head. Just 
 then a waiter came in with tea and coffee. His 
 entrance made a little break. When they were 
 again alone, Mrs. Underwood was composed. 
 
 "I'm like a foolish old hen, Robby. I get 
 flustered the moment my chicken wanders out 
 into the open." 
 
 "Poor dear fluffy mother-bird!" He laughed 
 softly and drew a little closer. "I'm rather a 
 
 sturdy chicken, I'm afraid, but Where's 'the 
 
 open'? Seems to me I'm always tucked away 
 under your wings. Even when I wander out, 
 just a little way, you know exactly where I am." 
 
 "Yes." There was a pause. Robin sipped 
 his coffee. "Robby, haven't you come to see 
 that it's impossible ? Haven't you got over it 
 a little?" 
 
 "You are thinking of Isola Bering?" His 
 eyes met hers frankly. At that moment the 
 spirit of his dead father seemed to look out at 
 her, through them. Neither father nor son had 
 ever known fear, in the ordinary sense of the 
 word. She felt suddenly nervous. Her lips be- 
 gan to tremble. 
 
 "Robby don't you see that it's quite impos- 
 sible?" 
 
 He shook his head. 
 
 "Mater it's the only thing possible for me. I
 
 WHAT IS LOVE 197 
 
 shall marry Isola Dering or I shall never marry 
 at all." 
 
 "But she has refused you or so I understand. 
 It seems incredible, but perhaps she recognizes 
 that it could not be ever." 
 
 "She has refused me twice, practically: once 
 right out, the second time in intention if not in 
 words." 
 
 "She refused you twice that girl who is 
 making herself the talk of Paris? She dared to 
 do such a thing?" 
 
 There were no tears in the big brown eyes 
 now. In their place a flash of pride and fierce 
 anger had come. Robin smiled. 
 
 "Poor darling little mater what a tremen- 
 dous prize I am, in your eyes ! You dear, sweet, 
 blind, old mummy!" He was caressing her 
 hands with his. The flash of anger suddenly 
 vanished. 
 
 "Robby!" 
 
 It was very pathetic, that call of love. The 
 boy's face flushed. 
 
 "Mater!" 
 
 "You're really in earnest about this affair? 
 You really fancy yourself in love with that girl?" 
 
 "I know that I love her which is not quite 
 the same thing." 
 
 "You're so young." 
 
 "Thank God for that!"
 
 198 WHAT IS LOVE <? 
 
 He was smiling again. His mother looked at 
 him in silence. Then she said, slowly: 
 
 "But if Miss Bering loves some one else?" 
 
 "But she doesn't!" 
 
 He spoke with such decision that his mother 
 was startled. 
 
 "How can you know ? You have just told me 
 that she has refused you twice." 
 
 "She's going to accept me at the 'third time 
 of asking.' " 
 
 "Robby!" 
 
 He looked straight into her troubled eyes and 
 laughed softly. 
 
 "Dear little mater! It's too bad you should 
 be bothered, but it can't be helped. It only 
 happens once in a man's life to cross the path 
 of his very own special girl the girl who was 
 made for him by Almighty God. If he's such 
 a fool as to let his chance slip, he has to take the 
 consequences. These chances don't go begging. 
 One has to seize on them and hold them tight, 
 unless one wants to lose them altogether." 
 
 "You want to insist on marrying a girl who 
 doesn't love you ?" 
 
 His laugh was good to hear. 
 
 "Good Lord no ! Mater, that darling little 
 girl loves me all right, only she doesn't know it. 
 Just now she's stuffed with wild ideas about the 
 Stage. She imagines she's going to go through
 
 WHAT IS LOVE "? 199 
 
 life as Juliet or Galatea, or some other lovely, 
 impossible creature. She's just a young thing 
 without an ounce of real experience. She's at 
 the wild-oat stage of life let her sow a few 
 innocent ones. I can wait!" 
 
 " 'Wild oats' ! A young girl ! The girl you 
 want to marry!" 
 
 There was horror in her voice. The boy 
 patted her arm soothingly. 
 
 "Sort of metaphorical wild oats, mater, in- 
 nocent as the follies of a small child of ten but 
 to her sufficiently serious. Of course I know 
 your dear little head is full of romantic ideas 
 about the future Mrs. Robin, but I assure you 
 we'll all be jolly lucky if we get Isola into our 
 clan. She's the loveliest and cleverest and sweet- 
 est little girl in the whole world." 
 
 There was a long silence. Mrs. Underwood 
 leaned back. For a second she closed her eyes. 
 Then she leaned over the tray and poured out 
 some fresh tea. 
 
 "Mr. de Vesian, the poet, admires Miss Ber- 
 ing very much so every one says." 
 
 She spoke without raising her eyes. Robin's 
 face grew suddenly stern. 
 
 "De Vesian's a low cad. He ought to be 
 kicked out of society." 
 
 He spoke so violently that his mother raised 
 her hand in warning.
 
 200 WHAT IS LOVE ? 
 
 "Hush Robin! There are people in the 
 next room. And besides what is wrong with 
 Mr. de Vesian ? It seems to me that he's just 
 like all the other young men who run after the 
 pretty actresses here. Only that he is very in- 
 telligent." 
 
 "He's a beast. I can't think why Auntie asks 
 him to her house. Every one knows what he is, 
 what his ideas are about women " 
 
 "I assure you he is on intimate terms with 
 Miss Bering. Only the other day his mother 
 told Gabrielle Borizoff, in my presence, that the 
 day of miracles hadn't left us, that her son was 
 'seriously in love with a jeune fille.' " 
 
 "Meaning Isola Dering?" 
 
 "I imagine so. In fact I'm quite sure. 
 Gabrielle turned the subject, but that horrid old 
 woman looked straight at me when she said it, 
 and I know she was thinking of you and of 
 your infatuation for that girl." 
 
 "I am not infatuated. I love her. And I 
 mean to marry her." 
 
 "Even if she prefers Guy de Vesian?" 
 
 "Mother!" 
 
 Robin had his father's temper. When he was 
 roused he could be dangerous. There was a 
 harsh, discordant note in his voice. His mother 
 looked up apprehensively. 
 
 "Robby darling boy I hate to vex you, but
 
 WHAT IS LOVE * 201 
 
 you are so young. You have had so little ex- 
 perience. And you're very obstinate. Can you 
 not believe that / know best this time? I've 
 seen a good deal of life. I've met a great many 
 people. I know what I am talking about, believe 
 me." 
 
 "Mater what has your experience to do 
 with it? She is my love. She will be my wife." 
 
 With a smothered cry Mrs. Underwood 
 caught his hands. 
 
 "Robby Robby it would kill me if you 
 made a mistake if you ruined your whole life. 
 I love you so, darling. The one thing I want 
 is to secure your happiness." 
 
 He nodded smilingly. 
 
 "But you want me to be 'happy' in your 
 way isn't that it ? Dear, human, little mummy 
 it's only natural!" 
 
 "I want you to be really, really happy." 
 
 She spoke with dogged determination. Her 
 face was flushed, her eyes unnaturally bright. 
 
 "So say we all ! I'm going to be gloriously, 
 magnificently happy, mater with her and 
 with you! Leave it to me it will all come 
 right. I shouldn't give you a thank-you for a 
 bunch of grapes that fell right down into my 
 hands. I'd go straight for the bunch high up on 
 the top the bunch I couldn't get unless I scram- 
 bled up on ladders and barked my shins and tore
 
 202 WHAT IS LOVE <? 
 
 the skin off my fingers. I always fancied things 
 that seemed out of reach, and I think it's a girl's 
 privilege to be 'difficile' ! Why should a lovely, 
 delicious girl, who's as clever as they make 'em, 
 want to throw herself into my arms? Isola is 
 right ! If I want to win her I must put my best 
 leg foremost. I must cling on by the skin of 
 my teeth." 
 
 "Robby you?" 
 
 "Yes, mater me! I've met my fate, and jolly 
 thankful I am that I had the dog sense to save 
 up my love for her. I'd feel a nice kind of a fool 
 now if I'd wasted my time philandering about 
 with ordinary girls ! I always knew that my im- 
 mortal she was in existence somewhere. I always 
 meant to marry her." 
 
 He looked so splendid, so handsome! His 
 mother's heart swelled with pride. Her boy was 
 one in a thousand. He radiated happiness; he 
 seemed the embodiment of joie-de-vivre. 
 
 She tried to smile. 
 
 "You really think Miss Bering would like to 
 leave Paris and to live in Devonshire? I sup- 
 pose you have thought of all that, Robby? You 
 have not forgotten that your father left a great 
 deal of responsibility on your broad shoulders." 
 
 "Dear old dad yes, I know. Of course I've 
 thought of it all, but she'll love it in time." 
 There was a pause. Then he came a little closer.
 
 WHAT IS LOVE ^ 203 
 
 "I say, mater, didn't you know Mr. Bering 
 rather well? And Isola's mother?" 
 
 Mrs. Underwood's face suddenly hardened. 
 
 "I didn't know the mother at all," she said 
 decidedly. "I never had the least wish to know 
 her. But Mr. Bering yes. He was charming, 
 quite delightful!" 
 
 "What was wrong with the mother?" 
 
 "'Wrong?' That's a difficult question to 
 answer. She was a very beautiful, very worldly 
 person. None of Mr. Bering's friends wanted 
 him to marry her, but she was very beautiful 
 quite extraordinarily like what her daughter is 
 now. He was in love " 
 
 She shrugged her shoulders deprecatingly. 
 Robin looked at her. 
 
 "And she? Wasn't she in love too? Or do 
 you suppose she married him for money 
 position " 
 
 "Oh, no! Not that, certainly. I disliked her 
 whole train de vie, but she certainly did not 
 marry Miles Bering for position. She could 
 have married Prince Platoff. In fact, I believe 
 she was engaged to him at one time." 
 
 "The man they used to call ( le Prince de 
 chic?' A relative of Auntie's ?" 
 
 Mrs. Underwood fanned herself vigorously. 
 
 "He was related to Prince Borizoff rather 
 distantly."
 
 204 WHAT IS LOVE 
 
 "And Isola's mother could have married 
 him?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 Robin brought his hand down on his knee with 
 a resounding clap. 
 
 "I like that ! They made a regular love- 
 match, Isola's parents. I like that !" 
 
 His face was radiant. His mother looked at 
 him steadily. 
 
 "Do you call Miss Dering 'Isola' when you 
 are speaking to her? If not, I don't think it is 
 in good taste for you to be so familiar." 
 
 He laughed boyishly. 
 
 "Oh, you dear, little, cross mummy, what a 
 wicked temper you have! And what is it all 
 about? my poor little love affair. Oh, mater, 
 mater just as if you never fell in love your- 
 self!" 
 
 "Robin!" 
 
 "Well, mater, isn't it true? Didn't you fall 
 over head and ears in love with dad, and weren't 
 you and he ideally happy just because you both 
 fell in love and remained in love ? He was your 
 mate, and that was why you were so happy. 
 Now / have found my little mate why do you 
 want to play dog in the manger?" 
 
 "Robin!" 
 
 She repeated the single word reproachfully.
 
 WHAT IS LOVE ? 205 
 
 But the boy only laughed softly. He captured 
 one of her white hands and caressed it. 
 
 "I suppose all mothers are alike in one respect. 
 They all think their geese swans, and none of 
 them believe that an angel from heaven would 
 be 'good enough.' It's a lovely little weakness, 
 but you must try to get rid of it, mummy. I love 
 Miss Bering is that respectful enough? with 
 my whole heart and soul and body, and I mean 
 to win her. Just now she can't make up her 
 mind to say 'yes,' but she will before very 
 long. I've unbounded faith in the third time of 
 asking." 
 
 Mrs. Underwood leaned back and closed her 
 eyes. 
 
 It was the most exquisitely painful moment of 
 her life. 
 
 Her boy, her splendid, splendid boy was he 
 drifting away from her? Was she indeed to 
 realize what it means to be alone? A hot tear 
 forced its way through her drooping lashes. 
 
 Robin saw it. In an instant he had slipped his 
 arm round her shoulders. 
 
 "Mater ! Darling little mummy, please don't. 
 You're making mountains out of the smallest of 
 mole-hills. Truly I wouldn't do anything that 
 would really hurt you, but it's only imagination. 
 It's only some wrong fancy that makes you dis- 
 like the idea of my marrying Isola Dering.
 
 206 WHAT IS LOVE ? 
 
 You don't know her, really. You've hardly 
 ever spoken to her alone. Your manner has 
 been so cold that I know she is frightened of 
 you. You haven't given her a chance, and it 
 isn't fair to me. If I didn't know that she is 
 everything that's adorable and sweet, do you sup- 
 pose I'd try to make you understand? try to 
 make you two the best of friends? No! If 
 I'd had the misfortune to fall in love with a 
 girl who wasn't your sort, I'd have faced the 
 matter out. I'd have realized from the first that 
 I'd have to make a choice. But with Isola 
 there's no question of 'choice.' I shall have 
 you both and you will have us both ! We shall 
 be the perfect triangle! And, by Jove, won't 
 we be happy just !" 
 
 He spoke in an excited whisper. The room 
 was quite empty. Leaning forward he kissed 
 his mother on the cheek once, twice. She 
 caught his hands and held them tightly. 
 
 "Robby! My darling, darling boy I do so 
 want you to be happy. I'm afraid I'm awfully 
 exigeante, but I can't help feeling sore when I 
 think any one is going to steal you from me. 
 All the same, Robby, I do think I shouldn't 
 mind if only only " 
 
 "If only my girl had been made to measure 
 your measure, mummy? Yes, I know how 
 you're feeling, but it can't be helped. When
 
 WHAT IS LOVE ? 207 
 
 Isola was moulded, up above in the skies, she 
 was branded 'Robin Underwood's wife,' and I 
 saw the brand the very first time we met at 
 least, I felt it was there !" 
 
 "You fell in love with her at first sight?" 
 
 Mrs. Underwood was trying to smile, but her 
 voice trembled. 
 
 Her son nodded. 
 
 "Rather! Gloriously, outrageously, blindly 
 in love!"
 
 CHAPTER XII 
 
 ONCE or twice in each summer season Guy 
 de Vesian gave a midnight fete. 
 
 He understood to perfection the art of enter- 
 taining. He knew how to astonish his world 
 without giving it a chance of saying that he 
 pandered to spectacular effects. ^Estheticism 
 was natural to him. He had many faults but 
 "pose" was not one of them. 
 
 Tout Paris had been bidden to a midnight 
 garden-party at the Villa Floralia. And Tout 
 Paris had accepted with enthusiasm. 
 
 Eleven had just struck. The poet was sitting 
 on the marble terrace which lay in front of the 
 Villa. He was alone. The great windows of 
 the hall and reception-rooms were wide open, 
 but no sound of bustle or excitement came from 
 the softly lighted house. A stranger visiting the 
 scene for the first time might well have supposed 
 that the members of the household had retired 
 to rest. 
 
 A pale globe of nacre veiled in silver tissues 
 
 hung low in shadows of deepest, darkest blue. 
 
 Myriads of restless stars clustered in groups. 
 
 Now and again one, more daring than its fel- 
 
 208
 
 WHAT IS LOVE ? 209 
 
 lows, sprang across the mysterious gulf and dis- 
 appeared. 
 
 The gardens were strangely still. In the 
 flood of silver light pale flowers raised their 
 heads and breathed forth subtle perfumes. 
 Below the terrace a thick hedge of velvet gerani- 
 ums flamed scarlet and purple. Moonbeams 
 dancing on the waters of the dolphin fountain 
 looked like showers of star-like flowers pearl- 
 white restless. 
 
 De Vesian turned in his chair and looked 
 through an open window into the great hall. 
 A soft, mellow glow radiated from electric 
 lights veiled in faint blue quartz. In a distant 
 corner a mysterious gleam, pastel-tinted, crept 
 through small panes of jewelled glass set deep in 
 an old moorish lamp of dull copper. Clouds of 
 scented smoke rose intermittently from the bowl 
 of a large brazier. A tangle of roses, extraordi- 
 narily cleverly arranged, lay against the walls, 
 which gleaned like alabaster in the subdued light. 
 
 It was an enchanted scene. 
 
 The poet sighed softly. He leaned back and 
 closed his eyes. 
 
 This was to be her Fete. 
 
 He had thought of it ordered it arranged 
 it for her. 
 
 In an hour she would be here in his house, 
 in his exquisite gardens, for the first time !
 
 210 WHAT IS LOVE 
 
 He sighed again, a sigh of consuming im- 
 patience. 
 
 His mother, with a comical grimace, had ac- 
 cepted his suggestion that she should leave 
 cards on the elder Miss Bering and on Isola. 
 An invitation to the fete had been issued and, 
 after much hesitation on Jessica's part, accepted. 
 She and her niece had come to understand each 
 other a little better. They were still apart as the 
 poles but, at times, tentative hands were stretched 
 out across the abyss. Miss Dering knew very 
 little about the famous poet, and what she knew 
 she disliked intensely, but Isola was wild to go 
 to the entertainment ! 
 
 In the depths of the gardens faint lights began 
 to steal through the interlaced branches of silent 
 trees. In the dusky air the waters of the fountain 
 fell like crystal rain on floating lilies, and on the 
 young-green lace of fragile ferns. The poet 
 leaned his arms on the marble balustrade and 
 peered out into the luminous shadows. 
 
 It had been a wonderful spring, the most 
 wonderful of his life. 
 
 That exquisite, delicious Niphetos bud with 
 the little pearl-hued petals which touched the 
 earth but bore no relationship to it she was 
 exquisite, the most perfect thing he had ever seen. 
 And thrice-blessed circumstances the ruthless,
 
 WHAT IS LOVE? 211 
 
 coarse circumstances of a jealous woman's pas- 
 sion had kept them apart ! 
 
 Lucienne Gerome had earned his gratitude 
 for all time. 
 
 In her frenzy of fierce jealousy she had 
 strained every nerve to keep Isola away from 
 him. 
 
 When the happenings of the daily theater life 
 had thrown him into the girl's society the woman 
 of the pale gold hair and burning, menacing 
 eyes was always present. It had been cleverly 
 arranged. There had been moments when the 
 great actress had clasped to her breast the 
 thought that she had been marvellously diplo- 
 matic. For Guy de Vesian had made no sign. 
 
 Lucienne almost believed that the tiny seed 
 of admiration which had, perhaps, been im- 
 planted in his imagination had drooped and 
 withered for want of the dew of personal inter- 
 course. 
 
 She had fought a desperate fight. She be- 
 lieved, almost, that she had won. 
 
 "Almost!" 
 
 For there were moments when she sat for 
 hours before her mirror and stared into its cruel 
 depths. 
 
 There were moments when something some 
 mocking devil which lurked in a secret chamber 
 of her brain forced her to compare that hate-
 
 212 WHAT IS LOVE * 
 
 ful "flower-face" with the quivering face re- 
 flected in the mirror. 
 
 There were moments when she remembered, 
 vaguely, certain personal revelations which her 
 lover had made in those delicious, long-ago 
 days. 
 
 Was it likely that he had changed in charac- 
 ter since then? Was it likely that he had lost 
 that mad longing for that which seemed out of 
 reach? 
 
 At such moments the face in the mirror had 
 gcown strangely old. Mocking sprites had 
 traced little paths for the heralds of Time round 
 the mouth which had so often been compared to 
 a cleft pomegranate. And the little lines had 
 wandered down down until they surrounded 
 the firm chin and disappeared into the folds of 
 the too-generous throat. 
 
 At those moments Lucienne had often lost 
 control of herself. Sometimes she had called 
 wildly, madly, for the masseuse, who was said to 
 be a worker of miracles. Sometimes she had 
 given way utterly. Wild sobs had shaken her 
 whole being. Floods of impotent tears had 
 dimmed her eyes and made the once lovely white 
 lids thick and shapeless. 
 
 She had been as a woman possessed of a devil.
 
 WHAT IS LOVE 213 
 
 And the name of that ever-present devil was 
 Jealousy. 
 
 Midnight had passed ! 
 
 Gorgeous human butterflies were flitting here 
 and there in the enchanted gardens of the Villa 
 Floralia. 
 
 From the depths of a mysterious grove there 
 came a maddening sound of amorous violins. A 
 company of tsiganes was hidden there. The 
 vibrating notes of a cymbalom spoke of wild em- 
 braces and clinging lips. 
 
 On the emerald carpet of a spacious lawn 
 groups of Russian ballet-dancers flitted to and 
 fro in rhythmic movement their filmy white 
 dresses giving a momentary impression of en- 
 chanting unreality. 
 
 ***** 
 
 Princess Borizoff was standing near a great 
 oak tree. A flood of silver light streamed down 
 from the heavens and gave to her stately figure 
 an appearance of statuesque magnificence. She 
 was gowned in white. Embroideries and fringes 
 of crystal weighed down the silken stuffs. Ropes 
 of pearls fell about her throat and breast. In 
 her beautiful hair, with its startling white lock, 
 there was a tiara of superb diamonds. The 
 night was warm, but she had retained her wrap
 
 214 WHAT IS LOVE ? 
 
 of sapphire velvet. It fell loosely off her perfect 
 shoulders. 
 
 She was leaning on Boris de Romanoff's arm. 
 She had been speaking to him gaily. Just then 
 she was silent. Her dark eyes were resting in- 
 tently on the face the supple figure of a 
 young girl who was watching the dancers in a 
 glow of enthusiasm. 
 
 She was very lovely. 
 
 Clinging draperies of soft white satin moulded 
 the exquisite form. It was a robe that Josephine 
 might have worn when she was in the heyday 
 of her charm and beauty. The dress was short 
 enough to show the little silver shoes and white 
 silk stockings. The rounded arms gleamed like 
 marble in the moonlight. They were bare to the 
 shoulders. A silky mass of gold-brown hair lay 
 close about the small head, proudly poised on 
 the perfect throat, which still retained the flat- 
 ness of early youth. 
 
 The girl was unconscious of the admiration 
 she was exciting. She was absorbed in the en- 
 chantment of the scene. Her hands were clasped 
 round a cluster of Niphetos roses her glowing 
 eyes were following every movement of the fly- 
 ing dancers. In her excitement she had drawn 
 quite close to the end of the emerald lawn. She 
 seemed alone. Her slender white figure was
 
 WHAT IS LOVE ? 215 
 
 silhouetted against the deep green of drooping 
 branches. 
 
 "She is beautiful." 
 
 It was Princess Borizoff who spoke. Comte 
 de Romanoff followed the direction of her eyes. 
 
 "Miss Bering? Exquisite!" 
 
 In silence they watched the white figure. The 
 eyes of the Princess were dreamy. She was 
 smiling. 
 
 Then, suddenly, they were surrounded by a 
 group of eager friends. There were exclama- 
 tions of enthusiasm, wild guesses as to the possi- 
 ble nature of further "surprises," mocking jests, 
 idle innuendoes, the careless, cruel chatter of 
 cosmopolitan mondaines. Princess Borizoff 
 answered her friends at random. Her dark 
 eyes were still fixed on the unconscious girl in 
 virgin-white. Her face grew hard when a mo- 
 ment later Guy de Vesian softly approached the 
 border of the lawn. He seemed to speak a few 
 words. The girl turned and looked at him. 
 Even from a distance the Princess could see the 
 light of excitement and vehement admiration on 
 her sensitive face. She looked up at the poet. 
 It seemed as though she was looking at a divine 
 being. 
 
 Again he spoke softly. 
 
 A moment later the spot where the white fig- 
 ure had stood was empty
 
 216 WHAT IS LOVE ? 
 
 Isola was living in a beautiful dream. She 
 had in some wonderful, mysterious way entered 
 into the realms of enchantment. Her whole 
 being seemed bathed in light and love and rap- 
 ture. Her most intimate visions had suddenly 
 become realities. 
 
 She had been right ! 
 
 The world, deep down beneath its careless, 
 glittering surface, was what she had imagined 
 it to be full of delicious enthusiasm and 
 romance. Life was beautiful ! The world still 
 held splendid human creatures who felt with 
 Dante that the "Lordship of Love" was worth 
 all else in life. There were still lovers like 
 Romeo like Paolo like Maurice de Saxe! 
 She was so happy that she felt afraid. 
 
 She was sitting with de Vesian in a remote 
 corner of the beautiful gardens. There was no 
 light save that of the silver moon. The broad 
 marble seat, curved like a crescent, was covered 
 with brocaded stuffs and with luxurious cushions. 
 Before them lay the rose-garden, in the midst 
 of which there was a miniature fountain. Above 
 their heads a canopy of dark foliage rose high 
 and then drooped languidly. The waters in the 
 oval basin threw up a slender thread of crystal. 
 From some giant oleanders in a far corner there 
 came a faint, subtle breath of perfume.
 
 WHAT IS LOVE ? 217 
 
 A great white moth with silver-lined wings 
 flitted past and then returned. 
 
 Isola held out her bare arm and the fluttering 
 thing caressed the white flesh with its wings. 
 She laughed softly. 
 
 The poet drew nearer. 
 
 A torch from his burning eyes leaped out and 
 set a flame against the door of her heart. 
 
 A divine flush rose to her cheeks. Uncon- 
 sciously she stretched out her hands. He caught 
 
 them softly. 
 
 ***** 
 
 The touch of his hands was as the touch of 
 fire. 
 
 Isola closed her eyes for a single second. He 
 was speaking in broken whispers. While he 
 spoke his eyes covered her with caresses. 
 
 "You are the wonder-child of my dreams, the 
 exquisite human flower which has haunted my 
 imagination. You are my inspiration, my Ideal, 
 the delicious creature that has become the bride 
 of my soul my wonder-child! my vision of 
 Spring ! my mystery of mysteries white as the 
 velvet of a Niphetos bud passionless still 
 as awakening dawn!" 
 
 He was silent. 
 
 Isola was trembling. Her lips were parted. 
 
 A mist of glamour enhanced the beauty of
 
 218 WHAT IS LOVE 
 
 her glorious eyes. Again, as a man in a dream, 
 the poet spoke. 
 
 "You were created for me. You belong to 
 me ! Our life together will be Ideal. We shall 
 be together you and I. And yet we shall be 
 in the world apart, for I would not have the 
 breath of vulgar scandal touch you. You will 
 be the bride of my imagination my spirit- 
 bride with flesh of ivory and eyes of midnight 
 splendor. My subtle thoughts will caress your 
 senses and slowly awaken them to exquisite life. 
 The mystic spirits of my soul will creep down 
 into the depths of your startled eyes they will 
 beat softly on the doors of your soul." 
 
 In the perfumed darkness he drew very near 
 and gazed into her eyes. His face was strangely 
 white. His hands were burning. The demon 
 of insanity which crouched by the doors of his 
 imagination had slipped its fragile curb. He 
 was mad, with the madness of self-worship. 
 
 This lovely child ! 
 
 What a glorious inspiration ! 
 
 How much she could do for him ! 
 
 Was she not truly the heaven-sent bride of his 
 Genius? 
 
 Isola was trembling. Her brain seemed on 
 fire. Her pulses were throbbing violently. It 
 seemed to her that she was no longer in the
 
 WHAT IS LOVE f 219 
 
 world. She was floating away on a cloud of 
 silver dreams where? 
 
 She held her breath. In the darkness a flood 
 of burning color rose to her cheeks. She sat 
 perfectly still. 
 
 The poet drew so close that his breath fanned 
 her face. 
 
 Very softly he passed his hand over her 
 white throat. Then still very softly he laid 
 his lips against her bare arm. 
 
 "You belong to me," he whispered. "You 
 are all mine mine only. That must be our 
 secret. The world must never know for the 
 world is vulgar and brutal. It will never under- 
 stand the things that are exquisite the things 
 that have value. The world would tell you to 
 call for priest and church. / tell you that Love 
 is its own priest. The benediction of love is 
 the only benediction that has value. Once- 
 long ago when I was a very young man, I was 
 tempted to bow to the ridiculous dictates of the 
 world. I married, in a church, a lovely girl who 
 seemed ideal, but who bitterly disappointed me. 
 The church gave me a benediction then and Love 
 was offended. For a few weeks he lingered by 
 me, and then he spread his wings! It was 
 merely an episode. But it was a lesson. I wish 
 her well. When we meet we meet as friends; 
 but to live with her near her No!"
 
 220 WHAT IS LOVE ? 
 
 His voice was hoarse. Again he laid his lips 
 against her arm, and this time their touch was 
 violent. 
 
 A second longer Isola sat perfectly still. The 
 hand of death seemed suddenly to have been laid 
 on her. She was incapable of movement. 
 
 And de Vesian also sat motionless. 
 
 Very slowly he was opening the gates of his 
 imagination to a new emotion. 
 
 He meant to drain this wonderful cup of ex- 
 perience to the dregs slowly. 
 
 The pressure of his burning lips ceased. 
 Once again he raised his white hand and touched 
 the perfect throat and neck. 
 
 The spell was broken ! 
 
 With a cry of horror the girl rose to her feet. 
 For a moment she stood before him, quivering 
 with excitement. 
 
 Then she turned from him and fled across the 
 gardens. 
 
 The poet rose. Then he softly sank back on 
 the broad seat. 
 
 He was not disturbed. 
 
 He was hardly surprised. 
 
 She was so wonderfully young ! so amazingly 
 innocent ! 
 
 This was to be the most exquisite experience 
 of his life.
 
 WHAT IS LOVE 221 
 
 For many moments he sat motionless. Then 
 he slowly crossed the lawn and joined the group 
 of eager admirers which had gathered round 
 
 Princess Borizoff. 
 
 ***** 
 
 An hour later Lucienne Gerome was still 
 crouching behind the thick hedge of laurels 
 which framed the crescent seat. Her wonderful 
 gown of silver tissues was torn. Here and 
 there it was horribly discolored with damp earth. 
 There were crimson marks on her throat, for 
 in her fury she had tried to drive her nails into 
 her flesh. 
 
 She looked terrible. 
 
 The lines on her white face were like little 
 furroughs. 
 
 Streaks of pale light were creeping out from 
 the horizon. The veil of dazzling silver had 
 passed from the face of the moon. It lay milk- 
 white against a dome of paling azure. 
 
 In the gallery which ran round the great hall 
 of the Villa Floralia musicians were playing a 
 dreamy valse. 
 
 Guy de Vesian was smiling as he led an im- 
 promptu cotillion with a lovely Austrian girl 
 who adored him. 
 
 In some church-tower a bell struck five times. 
 
 Paris was awakening.
 
 CHAPTER XIII 
 
 AFTER the midnight Fete at the Villa 
 Floralia Lucienne Gerome made no effort 
 to control her violent temper. 
 
 Daily, hourly, there were terrific scenes at 
 her theater. She was by turns insulting, savage, 
 hysterical, and with some of the victims re- 
 pentant. But she never expressed regret for the 
 sufferings she inflicted on the young English 
 girl, who was now an important member of her 
 company. 
 
 To Isola she was openly offensive. Nothing 
 the girl could do was right. She laughed at her, 
 jeered at her accent, which was in reality almost 
 perfect; kept her standing for hours together, 
 wore her out with unnecessary fatigue. And 
 still she resolutely held the girl to her contract. 
 She was determined to keep her at the theater 
 until the end of the season, come what might. 
 
 She was a daughter of the people. Her 
 mother had been a virago : the type of French- 
 woman who knitted savagely as the tumbrils 
 bearing hated aristocrats to the guillotine rattled 
 through the streets of Paris. 
 
 She possessed to the full her countrywomen's 
 extraordinary adaptability of character. She
 
 WHAT IS LOVE ? 223 
 
 had easily and quickly acquired a veneer which 
 enabled her to rustle with the best when occa- 
 sion demanded it. 
 
 And then she was in her own way a genius. 
 
 But what genius she had was amplified by her 
 constitutional and acquired lack of self-control. 
 She had known how to impose an exaggeratedly 
 unrestrained temperament upon her world. For 
 many years she had been clever enough and 
 beautiful enough to make people enchanted with 
 her eccentricities. She had never found it neces- 
 sary to curb her emotions of the immediate mo- 
 ment. She had never tried to do so. Now 
 self-restraint was impossible. It was second 
 nature to her to rage and storm when anything 
 annoyed her, to become violently hysterical one 
 minute, and the next to fling herself on the 
 breast of some one she had grossly insulted. 
 Generous to a fault where money was concerned, 
 she had never thought of laying any by. She 
 had always been able to command it in lavish 
 
 quantities. 
 
 ***** 
 
 She was walking to and fro in her dressing- 
 room, glancing critically at some wonderful 
 "creations" which Raoul Brossan had just de- 
 livered, turning over the roses in a great basket 
 which lay on a side table. She was in an evil 
 mood. Isola Dering was standing near the
 
 224 WHAT IS LOVE " 
 
 door; her face was very white; she was look- 
 ing intently at the great actress. 
 
 Suddenly Lucienne turned to her. 
 
 "You have heard my decision. You are a raw 
 amateur and you make no progress, but you will 
 have to stick to your contract. You will have to 
 play the role of Madeleine Delorme every night 
 
 until the end of the season. After that " 
 
 She laughed derisively. "After that your 
 friend, Gaston Lery, will probably do something 
 for you. You owe him a great deal already." 
 
 Isola flushed up. She was miserable, but her 
 pride came to the rescue. 
 
 "I am not aware that I owe Monsieur Lery 
 anything. I hardly know him." 
 
 Lucienne laughed again. 
 
 "You owe him your present position in the 
 most important theater in Paris ! And you owe 
 him your newly-acquired experience of life ! 
 He and Guy de Vesian are bosom friends, you 
 know!" 
 
 "You mean " 
 
 "I mean that I also was at that wonderful 
 Midnight Fete the other night, and that I am 
 very well aware of what occurred down there 
 in that dark corner of the garden ! It was really 
 too bad, but it was intended kindly. Lery wrote 
 to me some weeks ago and said that nothing 
 could be done with you, as an actress, until you
 
 WHAT IS LOVE ? 225 
 
 had had an 'experience.' I told him it wasn't 
 quite fair, but he and Guy de Vesian seemed 
 to think that something might be made of you 
 in the end!" 
 
 "Madame Lucienne!" 
 
 There was vehement indignation in the girl's 
 voice, and a piteous appeal. Lucienne Gerome 
 smiled as she threw herself on the big divan and 
 crossed her arms behind her head. 
 
 "You're surprised? Why? Did you sup- 
 pose that Guy de Vesian was really in love with 
 you?" 
 
 "He insulted me grossly cruelly. If my 
 father had been alive he would have killed 
 him." 
 
 She spoke passionately. She had suffered. 
 She was hurt, miserable, sullen. She had ac- 
 cepted many insults from the woman who had 
 been her idol, but this 
 
 Lucienne laughed aloud. 
 
 "'Insulted you?' How? He pretended to 
 make love to you. Was that a deadly insult?" 
 
 "He dared to speak of sharing my life of 
 being with me always of my belonging to him, 
 when all the time he is a married man. His 
 wife is alive, he told me so." 
 
 She spoke incoherently. She was breathless 
 with pent-up indignation. The actress stretched 
 herself out full length and laughed violently.
 
 226 WHAT IS LOVE ? 
 
 "Superb! An ideal Sainte Nitouche! So 
 ardent ! so demure ! so easily shocked ! so 
 extraordinarily innocent ! Of course Guy de 
 Vesian is a married man, and of course he does 
 not live with his wife. What does a great poet 
 want with a wife? What has he to do with 
 your ridiculous English family-life? He is a 
 great artist, just as I am a great artist. He is 
 free as I am free. And yet we two are 
 bound to each other." She sat up suddenly 
 and leaned on her elbow. Isola was staring at 
 her. 
 
 "Are you really an idiot? Are you blind? 
 Don't you know that he is my lover, that he 
 has been my lover for years, that we belong to 
 each other absolutely? Are you such a fool as 
 to believe that he really cared for you?" 
 
 Her face was twitching. The lines about her 
 mouth were hard. Her eyelids were swollen. 
 She had slept little and wept often and violently, 
 since the night of the moonlight Fete. She 
 looked old and very worn. There was some- 
 thing in her look that filled the girl with horror. 
 
 She was furiously indignant. 
 
 But, also, she was frightened. 
 
 She had a horrible conviction that the actress 
 was going mad. 
 
 Without speaking she moved quietly towards 
 the door. Lucienne Gerome watched her as a
 
 WHAT IS LOVE <? 227 
 
 cat might watch a mouse. When the girl's hand 
 was on the handle she spoke sharply. 
 
 "Come here!" 
 
 Hypnotized, Isola returned. She stood still 
 in the middle of the room. 
 
 Lucienne stared at her. Her experienced 
 eyes took in every point. She grew sick with 
 jealousy as she recognized afresh the girl's 
 beauty. 
 
 "Young! Beautiful!" 
 
 The words repeated themselves again and 
 again in her throbbing brain. 
 
 "Young/ Beautiful!" 
 
 The wild eyes of the actress held their victim. 
 Isola did not dare to move. She hardly dared 
 to breathe. 
 
 Lucienne's thoughts were tearing down the 
 veil that shrouded the spirits of past years. 
 They were racing back to those glorious days 
 when life her life had been in Spring, when 
 all the world had been at her feet, when she had 
 been feted and flattered and covered with jewels 
 with exquisite flowers with more money than 
 she, even she, knew how to spend. 
 
 What a glorious Spring! 
 
 How it had teemed with possibilities! 
 
 Each day had brought with it fresh joys, fresh 
 triumphs, fresh adorers.
 
 228 WHAT IS LOVE <? 
 
 She had been the idol of Europe. Her com- 
 ings and goings had been of more importance 
 than the movements of crowned heads. She had 
 ruled her world autocratically, by reason of her 
 strange beauty, by reason of her genius. 
 
 And it had still been summer in her life when 
 she learned what love meant, when she lost her- 
 self in the depths of a man's laughing eyes! 
 
 How she had loved him ! 
 
 Dear God! how madly she loved him still! 
 
 She was obsessed. 
 
 She had been, unconsciously, nearing her 
 autumn when she met Guy de Vesian. She had 
 given him that vehement, terrible love of which 
 women of certain temperament, under the spell 
 of unrecognized autumn, are capable. 
 
 From the first he had attracted her more than 
 any other man had ever attracted her. 
 
 Then he had held her by the silver threads of 
 his illusive charm. 
 
 In the end he had sealed her as his own with 
 the seal of egoism. He thought of himself only 
 at all times. 
 
 She thought of him only and at all times! 
 
 All other men she had been able to influence 
 easily. 
 
 This one man influenced her. 
 
 He held her.
 
 WHAT IS LOVE ? 229 
 
 ***** 
 
 In the domed ceiling of the dressing-room 
 there were stained windows of curious design. 
 
 It was late in the afternoon. 
 
 Suddenly, unexpectedly, a ray from the set- 
 ting sun flashed in through dulled glass which 
 showed metallic tones of green and palest blue. 
 The brilliant light caught the girl's hair and 
 turned it to burnished gold. It veiled her 
 slender figure for a single moment. She looked 
 exquisite, unreal. 
 
 With a cry of fury Lucienne sprang from the 
 couch and rushed towards her. Her eyes were 
 full of hatred. 
 
 Isola drew back in terror. 
 
 For a moment they stood face to face. 
 
 Then the actress flung open the door and 
 pushed the girl out violently.
 
 CHAPTER XIV 
 
 P)RINCESS BORIZOFF was reading aloud 
 broken sentences from the book in her 
 hand. 
 
 She was, so she said, improving Robin Under- 
 wood's French. The two were sitting in a high, 
 white-panelled room, on the first floor of the 
 Hotel Borizoff. It was a sitting-room belong- 
 ing to the Princess's private suite. On the walls 
 there were several Fragonards. The floor was 
 strewn with white bear rugs. Hangings of sea- 
 green satin lent an air of special freshness to the 
 oval room ; and this freshness was heightened by 
 the presence of tall white lilies in slender, silver 
 jars. The Princess was gowned in white laces. 
 Her head was bent over her book. As she 
 slowly turned the pages her beautiful fingers 
 tangled themselves in the historic rope of pearls 
 which she always wore. 
 
 " 'Les delicats ne sont pas vetus pour le voy- 
 age de la 'vie! " 
 
 Robin put down his cup with a clatter. 
 
 "That's jolly true ! Seems to me 'la vie,' as 
 they understand it over here, is a regular old 
 beast." 
 
 She closed the book, smiling. 
 230
 
 WHAT IS LOVE <? 231 
 
 "A propos of what, Robby?" 
 
 "Oh I don't know. At least I say, 
 
 Auntie, I want you to do me an immense favor. 
 Will you promise?" 
 
 "Blindly?" She laughed softly. "You are 
 rather a wonderful young man, Robby!" 
 
 He looked unexpectedly confused. For a 
 second or two he remained silent. The Princess 
 let her dark eyes wander over his well-knit 
 figure clad in pale grey. Her gaze remained 
 stationary as it reached the carefully arranged 
 buttonhole of Parma violets. They matched the 
 little thin tie to perfection! 
 
 "I say, Auntie, -don't tease. I'm awfully 
 worried and I want your advice your help." 
 
 "Yes. What is wrong now?" 
 
 The mischievous stress on the last word 
 brought a tinge of color to his brown cheeks. 
 He sat up very straight. 
 
 "It isn't a case of 'now' or 'then.' It's 
 always the same thing. Auntie, she's awfully 
 seedy. I haven't been able to see her for over 
 a week. Won't you do something?" 
 
 There was a perceptible pause. 
 
 "You are speaking of Miss Bering ?" 
 
 "Of course." 
 
 "She is ill?" 
 
 " '111' ? Oh, I don't think it's so serious as 
 all that, but she's run down so her aunt said.
 
 232 WHAT IS LOVE ? 
 
 The heat or something. At any rate I haven't 
 been able to see her, and I don't like to bother 
 her with letters. Flowers, of course, but letters 
 seem to demand answers, and if she's really 
 upset " 
 
 The boy looked abjectly miserable. 
 
 They were sitting very close together. The 
 Princess stretched out her hand and patted his 
 face. 
 
 "Poor Bobby ! It's too bad, but I expect that 
 Miss Bering is not very seriously ill ! Certainly 
 she looked the picture of health the other night, 
 at the Villa Floralia." 
 
 "Hang the Villa Floralia." The boy spoke 
 violently. He made a sudden movement which 
 set the tea-cups clattering. A second later he 
 looked remorseful. "I beg your pardon, Auntie. 
 I'm an ill-mannered brute, but that fellow dis- 
 gusts me. It's an abominable shame that he and 
 that loathesome creature Lery should have the 
 right to enter her presence." 
 
 Princess Borizoff leaned back in her chair. 
 
 "Monsieur Lery is the most popular French 
 dramatist of the day. Monsieur de Vesian is 
 something of a genius. Miss Bering has chosen 
 an artistic profession. It is necessary for her to 
 keep in touch with artists." 
 
 She spoke carelessly, but she was watching 
 him closely.
 
 WHAT IS LOVE ? 233 
 
 For a moment he remained motionless. Then 
 he brought his clenched hands down on his 
 knees. 
 
 "It's a beastly shame. She's just a poor little 
 girl, whd has lost her way in their horrible vie 
 artistique. She knows no more about its reali- 
 ties than an unborn baby. But if she stays in 
 that set long enough they'll force her to know. 
 And what then?" The veins on his forehead 
 were standing out in knots. His eyes were 
 flaming with indignation. "Auntie, do you re- 
 member that singing chap in Ouida's 'Moths'? 
 I forget his name, but he had a lot that was fine 
 in him. Do you remember the wedding-present 
 he sent the poor little girl 'Vera'? It was a 
 sort of allegory a little moth in jewels that 
 couldn't make up its mind whether it wanted to 
 rise to the stars or sink to the flames. I was 
 reading the book only this morning. Somehow 
 it made me think of her. She's awfully like that 
 girl 'Vera,' in many ways." 
 
 It was an incoherent speech, but the Princess 
 understood. She remembered the book. She 
 had seen something of Ouida in Italy, in the 
 days when the famous writer was comparatively 
 poor; she had always admired her exuberant 
 talent. 
 
 "You know Miss Dering. I do not. But I 
 have seen her. I cannot help thinking that she
 
 234 WHAT IS LOVE <? 
 
 has sides to her character which were unknown 
 to 'Vera.' " 
 
 "Of course!" Robin was vehement. "Isola 
 is a splendid human girl not an impossible 
 heroine of a novel. Thank God she's not per- 
 fect, but she's the sweetest, loveliest thing in the 
 whole world." 
 
 The Princess was insistent. 
 
 "Robby, tell me what are you going to do 
 if this wonderful girl elects to remain on the 
 stage? Can you really contemplate marrying a 
 French actress?" 
 
 "Stay on the stage here after we were 
 married? Not much!" 
 
 He spoke violently. The Princess smiled. 
 
 "But suppose she refuses to give up her 
 chosen profession?" 
 
 There was a long silence. 
 
 Robin leaned forward and drummed his right 
 hand on his knee. He was visibly excited. 
 After a moment he raised his other hand and 
 brushed his short hair from his forehead. 
 
 "Auntie do you mind if I say something 
 rather intimate? Will you forgive me if I seem 
 cheeky when you know I don't mean it?" She 
 nodded smilingly. "Well, it's like this, you see. 
 If you've ever really been in love you can under- 
 stand how I feel. If not why, you'll never, 
 never understand."
 
 WHAT IS LOVE <? 235 
 
 The faintest tinge of color rose to her face. 
 She was an intensely proud woman. No one, in 
 all her life, had dared to say such an intimate 
 thing to her. For a moment she felt inclined to 
 resent the audacity. Then her half-caressing, 
 half-mocking smile stole back. 
 
 "You're a young man of courage, Robby. 
 But before I undertake to answer such an im- 
 portant suggestion as that I should like to follow 
 your meaning. You wish me to realize what 
 it means to you to be in love ? You wish me to 
 realize that a great love can remove mountains? 
 Perhaps! But I am inclined to think that 
 very much depends upon the nature of the 
 mountains!" 
 
 "That's just it! It would be jolly hard 
 almost impossible to fight against another man 
 if he had managed to get hold of her heart. 
 But a profession! That's quite different. And 
 then in this case it's an imaginary profession, for 
 that darling little girl hasn't a ghost of an idea 
 of what life on the Paris stage really means. 
 She wants to be Juliet and that girl Dante was 
 in love with, and all those other fascinating 
 creatures one reads about; but the real thing 
 here! Why, she couldn't stand it for an hour 
 if she knew." 
 
 The Princess looked at him steadily. 
 
 "You are sure that it is only the 'profession'
 
 236 WHAT IS LOVE ? 
 
 you will have to fight? You are sure that there 
 is not another man?" 
 
 She spoke quietly, but with evident meaning. 
 Robin flushed up. 
 
 "I know what you are thinking that beast 
 de Vesian?" He looked at her defiantly. She 
 made a slight gesture of assent. "I've thought 
 of that too lots of times. I see the danger. 
 She's as blind to his real nature as she is to the 
 realities of the Paris stage. She's just sailing 
 along on a sort of enchanted lake of her own, 
 and it doesn't matter if only she doesn't get 
 drawn out to sea before she realizes that a sea 
 exists." 
 
 There were beads of perspiration on his fore- 
 head. He brushed them aside irritably. For 
 the first time he was giving voice to a fear that 
 haunted him night and day. 
 
 With a caressing gesture the Princess laid her 
 hand on his arm. 
 
 "Robby, suppose that happened? Suppose 
 the girl you love was really drawn into the 
 rapids? Suppose that she passed out of her 
 enchanted lake never to return?" 
 
 The oath which broke from his lips was 
 scarcely smothered, but the Princess Borizoff 
 was not in the least offended. On the contrary, 
 she was conscious of a sensation of pleasure. 
 Her white hand stole down his coat sleeve and
 
 WHAT IS LOVE <? 237 
 
 rested on the hot, restless hand which was 
 pressed against his knee. 
 
 "You would still love her? You would still 
 want to make her your wife?" 
 
 "My God! Auntie, can't you understand? 
 Don't you realize that love real, true love 
 is deathless? It can no more die than the soul 
 can die unless it dies of utter starvation. To 
 love is to understand. To understand is to for- 
 give everything anything. But with Isola 
 there'll never be anything real to forgive. She's 
 too sweet and pure and lovely for any real 
 wrong to touch her. Only she's so young. 
 She knows so little of the world." 
 
 He lay back and closed his eyes. 
 
 The Princess watched him. Her eyes had 
 grown very tender. In their depths there was a 
 shadow of beautiful dreams. 
 
 He was such a boy. And yet he was strong. 
 
 Miles Bering would have liked him well ! 
 ***** 
 
 Robin opened his eyes. He smiled. Throw- 
 ing open his grey coat, he expanded his shoul- 
 ders and slapped his broad chest. 
 
 "I've been talking awful nonsense, Auntie! 
 I've been going on like some romantic ass in a 
 sixpenny novel. These mountains don't really 
 exist. Or if they do exist they're made of card-
 
 238 WHAT IS LOVE ? 
 
 board. A good kick will knock them into 
 kingdom-come !" 
 
 He leaned forward and took up her cup. 
 Very carefully he poured out some fresh tea, and 
 then proceeded to add butter to an already well- 
 buttered muffin. The Princess watched him. It 
 seemed to her that history was repeating itself. 
 In the long-ago days far away in beautiful 
 Rome Miles Bering had prepared her tea in 
 just this way. He, also, had been past-master 
 in the art of muffin-buttering. 
 
 She sighed softly. 
 
 Robin carefully placed the cup and plate on 
 the table. Then he knelt down by her side. 
 Very gently he wound his strong young arms 
 round her waist. 
 
 "Dearest loveliest Auntie ! Are you going 
 to grant me that favor?" 
 
 His deep blue eyes were shining. He looked 
 very ardent. She raised her hand and smoothed 
 her crisp hair. 
 
 "What do you want me to do this time?" 
 
 "I want you to give me a leg up." 
 
 She laughed outright. 
 
 "'A leg up'? Up where?" 
 
 "Auntie I want you to see her just you two 
 alone together. I want you to talk to her, to 
 draw her out, to make her confide in you. You 
 could do it if you wished, because you're so
 
 WHAT IS LOVE ? 239 
 
 awfully magnificent that if once you let any one 
 see you were human you could do anything you 
 liked. Isola any one'd be so awfully flattered 
 that they she, I mean would say out every- 
 thing." 
 
 She laughed again. 
 
 "My dear boy where did you learn Eng- 
 lish? I am a poor ignorant foreigner, but cer- 
 tainly I speak your language better than you do ! 
 But that does not matter. Tell me more about 
 this 'leg up.' " 
 
 He softly pinched her arm. 
 
 "You tease! Well, don't you see, it's like 
 this. A fellow seems an awful fool when he 
 asks some one to say pretty things about him, 
 but that's very much what I want. I feel I'm 
 at a disadvantage with her. She knows me 
 fairly well, of course, but it isn't as if we'd been 
 staying in the same houses together and had the 
 same friends. You know it really does give a 
 fellow a leg up when some one diplomatically, 
 of course says he's an awfully good sort, and 
 that other people think no small beer of him, 
 and that he can ride fairly straight, and doesn't 
 pepper beaters in the leg or anything of that 
 sort. You're the ideal ambassadress, you know. 
 It would be the easiest thing in life to you, and 
 it might do me no end of good." 
 
 "You don't think your mother is "
 
 240 WHAT IS LOVE ? 
 
 He broke in vehemently. 
 "No good at all. The dear little mater is 
 perfection itself, but she's not enthusiastic over 
 this affair. And even if she wanted to pull it 
 off she'd go the wrong way about it in a con- 
 versation with Isola. You know the mater? 
 She thinks an angel straight from heaven 
 wouldn't be half good enough for me ! And, 
 though she's too well-bred to say so in so many 
 words, she'd jolly well make her meaning un- 
 derstood. Oh, no that wouldn't do at all. In 
 the first place, she wouldn't do it, and if she did, 
 she'd get Isola's back up. For that little girl 
 has lots of pride, I can tell you." 
 
 She smiled. 
 
 "I do not doubt it! But I do not yet quite 
 see what you want me to do. I have already 
 called on Miss Dering, but she was not at home. 
 She and her aunt left cards here, but they did 
 not come on my 'day.' What next?" 
 
 She ruffled his hair mischievously. He turned 
 his head quickly and kissed her hand. 
 
 "That's all right. You mean to do it. I 
 know your little ways. And, Auntie, look here 
 not a word about my blessed 'position,' if you 
 love me. What is it? Where's the tremendous 
 pull of -being fairly well off <and a 'country 
 gentleman' ? In reality it would be a big sacri- 
 fice for her to consent to bury herself in Devon-
 
 WHAT IS LOVE ? 241 
 
 shire though, of course, we'll have a house in 
 town, and we can travel about as much as she 
 likes. The mater thinks I'm no end of a catch, 
 but, by Jove ! I don't see myself in that light 
 where Isola is concerned. All the same, I want 
 you to say a few nice things about me ! You 
 know, I have to run over to London for a few 
 days. Like the sweetest Auntie that you are, 
 make an opportunity for seeing her while I'm 
 away. That would look most awfully natural, 
 and then do what you can for me. I've any 
 amount of love to offer, if that counts." 
 
 The Princess leaned forward and kissed him. 
 
 "Robby shall I tell you what I think? I 
 think your wife will be a very lucky girl! very 
 much to be envied."
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 JESSICA BERING knew something had 
 happened to change her niece's life. She 
 saw that the girl was suffering, but she did 
 not dare to ask questions. It seemed to her that 
 in some mysterious way the spirit of her dead 
 brother had taken possession of Isola. 
 She was so quiet. 
 
 She was considerate, even affectionate, but she 
 remained insistently aloof. 
 
 It seemed to Miss Dering that she was never, 
 for a single moment, her natural self. There 
 was a fevered look in her eyes. Once when the 
 aunt had, intentionally, touched the velvet skin, 
 she had been horrified; it was dry and burning 
 
 hot. 
 
 ***** 
 
 And Isola! 
 
 She was torn by warring emotions; fiercely 
 indignant, disappointed, disillusioned, desper- 
 ately lonely. 
 
 She had been insulted. She had been be- 
 trayed, held up to ridicule by the woman she had 
 worshipped. 
 
 She felt soiled. 
 
 It seemed to her that never again could she 
 242
 
 WHAT IS LOVE ? 243 
 
 feel happy, hopeful, spring-like, as she had felt 
 that day in the Bois with Robin Underwood. 
 
 Somehow she found herself thinking a great 
 deal about Robin just then. He was away, in 
 London, but in spirit he was with her. The 
 thought of him gave her something of confi- 
 dence. She never meant to tell him the horrible 
 truth, but she hugged to her soft breast the cer- 
 tain knowledge that if she did tell him he would 
 avenge her. 
 
 He was a boy, but he was no coward. He 
 would do what her father would surely have 
 done in the same circumstances. 
 
 She could not tell him ever. She longed 
 passionately for a friend, for a protector. But 
 it must not be Robin. For if she told him any- 
 thing, she would have to tell all. And it would 
 hurt him. 
 
 She had been mad, worse than foolish. She 
 had been infatuated with a creature of her own 
 imagination. She had almost worshipped the 
 marvellous being she had imagined the poet 
 to be. 
 
 Her dream had been wonderful. 
 
 It seemed to her that all her life, since that 
 night when she had first seen Lucienne Gerome, 
 had been a dream. She had known nothing, 
 wanted nothing, of realities. 
 
 And the awakening ? Horrible !
 
 244 WHAT IS LOVE ? 
 
 ***** 
 
 She had been blindly obstinate. She had 
 made her aunt suffer. She was making her 
 suffer now, but she could not confide in her. 
 
 If only Robin had been in Parts just then ! 
 
 She could have told him much. It would 
 have been such a comfort, and perhaps he would 
 not have asked questions. He was so wonder- 
 fully clever about some things. 
 
 Probably he would not have asked questions. 
 
 And yet? 
 
 Could she have kept the whole truth from 
 him? Could she have resisted the claims of his 
 absolute confidence in her? 
 
 He thought her the sweetest, purest thing in 
 the whole world. 
 
 He believed in her, he trusted her, he adored 
 her. 
 
 In those lonely days his love meant a great 
 deal. 
 
 It seemed to close in about her and to whisper 
 soft words of sympathy. In some mysterious 
 way it was her one real consolation. 
 
 And yet it was when she thought of Robin's 
 unquestioning love that she was most conscious 
 of the plague spot on her arm that burning 
 spot where clinging lips had rested. 
 
 She felt soiled. She could not bear that 
 Robin should know that ever,
 
 WHAT IS LOVE <? 245 
 
 He had often told her that her throat was like 
 a marble column. His ardent young eyes had 
 often devoured its soft whiteness, but he had 
 never touched it ! 
 
 If Robin knew all he would be disgusted. 
 He might say nothing. Probably he would try 
 to find excuses for her weakness, but in his heart 
 
 he would be disgusted. 
 
 ***** 
 
 Shut up in her bedroom Isola tried to think 
 out the possibilities of her future. 
 
 The stage? 
 
 She loathed it. 
 
 The veil of glamour had been torn aside. She 
 realized, now, that what she had imagined to be 
 conviction was merely fervent enthusiasm. 
 
 She had worshipped an Ideal. The reality 
 was hateful. 
 
 In her heart she had long known that her 
 dreams were nothing but dreams. So many 
 things had hurt and offended her. She as the 
 only English girl in the company had been a 
 thing apart. She had been bitterly envied as 
 "Madame's protegee." She had been sneered at 
 and secretly ridiculed, but on the whole she had 
 been left alone. So long as "Madame" smiled 
 on her no one dared to be openly offensive: but 
 she had been disliked by most of her companions 
 in the theater. The women had hated her be-
 
 246 WHAT IS LOVE ? 
 
 cause of her strange beauty. The men had re- 
 sented her "English manner." She loved to 
 make friends. She had tried to enter into life 
 behind the scenes with enthusiasm, but she was 
 not "facile." And she had been pushed into 
 prominence through favoritism. They disliked 
 her. The jeune premier, a handsome youth with 
 languid eyes and persuasive voice, had tried, 
 secretly, to make love to her, but he was 
 burdened by a wild desire to please Gaston 
 Lery; and Lery had made it known, with brutal 
 clearness, that "La petite Anglaise" belonged to 
 his friend Guy de Vesian. 
 
 Many things had been said, and hinted, that 
 were incomprehensible to the girl, but she felt 
 that she was not liked. She knew instinctively 
 that nearly every woman in the company would 
 rejoice at her downfall. 
 
 And was she really to accept failure with- 
 out a struggle? That was the question that 
 haunted her. 
 
 She hated the stage, hated the Theatre 
 Gerome, but she was ashamed to fail ! 
 
 "Bering's daughter." "Bering's daughter." 
 
 How often, with pride, she had heard the 
 words. People who had known him had wel- 
 comed her for his sake. People who had recog- 
 nized his genius were prepared to find talent, 
 that at least, in his daughter.
 
 WHAT IS LOVE 247 
 
 The way had been made wonderfully easy for 
 her. She was ashamed to fail. 
 
 The afternoon was drawing on. 
 
 Some one knocked at the bedroom door. An 
 old servant came in carrying a letter. Isola 
 opened it. She glanced quickly through its 
 contents and then stared at the signature: 
 "Gabrielle Borizoff." 
 
 She read the note again. "Will you waive 
 ceremony and come to see me this afternoon? 
 You were not at home when I called the other 
 day, but your father and I were friends. I 
 should like to have the pleasure of knowing 
 you intimately. ' ' 
 
 The servant said the footman had told her 
 that the automobile was waiting, in case "Made- 
 moiselle" could return in it. 
 
 * * * * * 
 
 Isola sat very still. 
 
 Princess Borizoff? 
 
 She had always longed to know her. And 
 yet she was conscious of a feeling of resentment. 
 This famous leader of society had known her 
 father. She had never until quite lately taken 
 any notice of her. 
 
 Why had this invitation been sent? Why did 
 the Princess so suddenly wish to know her 
 "intimately" ?
 
 248 WHAT IS LOVE <? 
 
 Her recent experiences had made the girl ab- 
 normally sensitive. She was always looking for 
 fresh slights. For a moment she thought of 
 declining the invitation. Then suddenly she 
 made up her mind to accept it. 
 
 When Isola Dering crossed the threshold of 
 the little salon at the end of the great suite of 
 reception rooms Princess Borizoff was conscious 
 of feeling surprised. 
 
 The girl was beautiful, dignified, self-pos- 
 sessed. She was perfectly dressed and charm- 
 ing in every way, but she was not what the Prin- 
 cess had expected. 
 
 A little smile flickered across her face as she 
 suddenly remembered Robin Underwood's boy- 
 ish words "I want you to give me a leg up!" 
 
 She was a woman of courage, but it occurred 
 to her that it might not be easy to interfere, 
 even indirectly, with this girl's plans. 
 
 Isola looked straight at her. At that moment 
 the Princess found her thoughts flying back to 
 the day, so many years ago, when the painter 
 had paid his first visit, at her request, to the 
 Villa Borizoff in Rome. After all those years 
 she still remembered the amused question that 
 had flashed from his eyes as he greeted her. 
 There was no amusement in the dark eyes that
 
 WHAT IS LOVE <? 249 
 
 ! 
 
 were now watching her so steadily, but the like- 
 ness was very great: almost startling. 
 
 She held the girl's hand for a moment. 
 
 "Shall we sit near the window?" she said. 
 
 "It is a magnificent afternoon. It seems 
 almost a shame to stay in the house." 
 
 Isola smiled. With admirable grace she sank 
 back into the depths of a big armchair. A pert 
 little Pekingese ran forward and sniffed at her 
 skirts, daintily. Then he ventured closer and 
 rubbed his little black nose against her hand. 
 She looked down at him, laughing softly. A 
 second later the cheeky little creature was on 
 her lap. The Princess poured out tea. As she 
 handed a cup to her visitor her keen eyes took 
 in every detail of the pretty summer dress. The 
 folds of soft white silk were very becoming to 
 the slender figure. The wide-brimmed hat cast 
 a delicious shadow over the lovely face. The 
 girl was quite charming, but the Princess found 
 herself wondering, a little, at some of the things 
 Robin had said about her. The boy was so 
 boyish ! This girl was so exceedingly self- 
 possessed. 
 
 For a moment or two they discussed the 
 weather, the Paris season, the Trouville, and 
 so on. 
 
 For the first time in her life, Princess Borizoff 
 found it difficult to make conversation. If it
 
 250 WHAT IS LOVE ? 
 
 had been possible for her to feel disconcerted 
 she felt so at that moment face to face with 
 Miles Bering's daughter. There was something 
 she did not understand. This girl was either 
 extraordinarily cold, almost uninteresting, or 
 she was holding herself in check, intentionally. 
 
 Suddenly the Princess was conscious that she 
 was irritated. She plunged into deep waters. 
 
 "We were all present at the premiere of Mon- 
 sieur Lery's clever play. All Paris has been 
 talking of your perfect accent, of your extraordi- 
 nary command over the French language 
 which is not an easy one." 
 
 The girl smiled slightly. 
 
 "I have only been in England once in my life. 
 I was educated here in Paris in a convent. I 
 think I speak French more correctly than 
 English." 
 
 "You speak both languages very well indeed ! 
 But how does it come that you know so little of 
 England? Does your aunt never go home?" 
 
 "'Home'? I never thought of England as 
 'home.' Of course, my mother was English, but 
 then father was exaggeratedly Irish so every 
 one says." 
 
 "Yes. He was quite Irish." 
 
 "You knew him well?" 
 
 The girl's face grew suddenly soft. There
 
 WHAT IS LOVE 251 
 
 was eagerness in her eyes. The Princess 
 hesitated. 
 
 "I knew him rather well. He and my 
 friend Mrs. Underwood were great friends. It 
 was she who introduced him to me." 
 
 "Mrs. Underwood? Robin Underwood's 
 mother?" 
 
 "Yes. You knew the Underwoods were 
 friends of your father, didn't you?" 
 
 Isola's lips curled slightly. 
 
 "I knew that Mrs. Underwood saw a good 
 deal of Aunt Jessica and of father long ago, 
 in Rome. She has called at the Rue de Douai 
 twice." 
 
 Princess Borizoff looked down. She knew 
 what the words implied. Face to face with those 
 splendid dark eyes she felt guilty. She also 
 had been a friend of the dead painter. How 
 many times had she called at the Rue de Douai? 
 It rarely happened to her to feel regret for any- 
 thing she had done or left undone, but she 
 found herself wishing, very much, that she had 
 taken the girl under her protection from the 
 beginning. Her word was law in the grand 
 monde of Paris. She could have done much. 
 
 She leaned back in her chair. 
 
 "You have seen something of Robin Under- 
 wood, I think? He is one of my great favorites. 
 I miss him dreadfully."
 
 252 WHAT IS LOVE ? 
 
 "Yes? He is charming. Aunt Jessica is de- 
 voted to him." 
 
 Again there was a moment of silence. The 
 Princess was a very proud woman proud 
 enough to be able to turn the point of a joke 
 inward. And this was something of a joke, this 
 quiet turning of the tables! It was the visitor 
 who seemed perfectly at ease. It was she who 
 was forced to search for possible subjects of 
 conversation. She was irritated. But she felt 
 curiously elated. This girl was worthy to be the 
 painter's daughter. 
 
 She took up a box of bon-bons. 
 
 "Won't you have some? They are rather 
 good, I think." The girl leaned forward and 
 took a sugared chestnut in her dainty fingers. 
 "The season is almost over. Where are you 
 going for the holidays and in the autumn?" 
 
 "My aunt speaks of a fortnight at Biarritz. 
 Then it's not quite settled. Madame Gerome 
 is going to America." 
 
 "She is going to take La Jeune fille de 
 ] Demain to the States?" 
 
 The Princess was smiling. Isola's color rose. 
 
 "I don't know. I fancy Monsieur Jules 
 that is to say, Monsieur Rivaud doesn't think 
 it very suitable. But Monsieur Lery has written 
 a new piece." 
 
 "He is clever."
 
 WHAT IS LOVE "? 253 
 
 "Every one says so." 
 
 "But what do you think personally?" 
 
 The Princess was insistent. Isola looked 
 down. 
 
 "I don't think I'm a judge. Madame 
 Gerome says I am still only a 'raw amateur.' ' 
 
 She was smiling, but her listener recognized 
 the undercurrent of bitterness. 
 
 "Poor Gerome!" The Princess laughed 
 slightingly. "You are very much infatuated 
 with your profession ? You mean to make a big 
 success?" 
 
 For a second the splendid dark eyes were 
 turned full on her. In that brief second she saw 
 that the girl was suffering intensely. Then the 
 mask was replaced. 
 
 "I mean to succeed if I can. I don't think I'm 
 infatuated with the stage, but I mean to 
 succeed." 
 
 "But what made you think of it at first?" 
 
 "I saw Madame Gerome. I wanted to be like 
 her." 
 
 "My dear child!" 
 
 Princess Borizoff spoke in genuine horror. 
 Isola smiled. She knew she had shocked this 
 woman who had been her father's friend. She 
 was glad. 
 
 There was quite a long silence. The Princess 
 was thinking rapidly. Something within was
 
 WHAT IS LOVE 
 
 forcing her to hold out a helping hand to this 
 strange girl. Something was telling her to break 
 down this wall of unnatural reserve at all 
 costs. 
 
 This was Miles Dering's daughter his only 
 daughter. She was a mere child. She was still 
 young enough ignorant enough to say that 
 she wished to be like Lucienne Gerome ! 
 
 She spoke impulsively. 
 
 "Each one of us has a cherished ambition of 
 some sort. I should like to show you the picture 
 of a nation's ambition ! I believe it would in- 
 terest you." 
 
 Isola looked at her. She rose quickly. She 
 was beginning to feel ashamed of her sullen 
 temper. There was something so superb so 
 queenlike about this lovely woman. She felt 
 she had behaved like a sulky child. 
 
 The Princess passed her hand through her 
 arm and crossed the room. 
 
 When they reached the entrance of her 
 private suite of apartments she stood aside and 
 motioned her visitor to pass in before her. 
 
 On the threshold of the bedroom Isola stood 
 still a second. It was so harmonious, so regal 
 in its subdued splendor, and yet so restful. 
 
 There were hangings of palest pink and pearl 
 and white. The satin stuffs were clouded in 
 mists of Indian muslins. White rugs lay against
 
 WHAT IS LOVE ? 25$ 
 
 the dark floor. The great wide dressing-table 
 was of carved ebony inset with silver. It was 
 covered with delicate lace. Crystal and silver 
 gleamed on the toilet bottles and brushes. Pale 
 roses stood here and there in porcelain vases. 
 
 Close to an open window there was a large 
 writing-table. Standing on it, shaded by droop- 
 ing roses, was the figure of a Japanese dancing- 
 girl carved in white wood. Isola's eyes dilated 
 as they fell on it. One of her most cherished 
 possessions was just such a little figure as this. 
 Impulsively she ran to the table. The Princess 
 smiled. She said nothing. Very slowly she 
 crossed the room and stood before a large pic- 
 ture which hung low on the end wall. A second 
 later Isola had joined her. 
 
 It was a panel-shaped canvas; immense; 
 strangely impressive. In the midst of a somber, 
 midnight sky there was a single star of great 
 brilliancy. And the single star dominated the 
 vast canvas. 
 
 Lower down there was a snow-covered plain 
 illimitable, dreary, desperately cold. And 
 across this cruel plain streamed a confused mass 
 of struggling humanity. The countless figures 
 were barely outlined. They seemed to melt into 
 the background and yet they gave a vivid impres- 
 sion of dogged strength held in leash. 
 
 Onward onward they blindly forced their
 
 256 WHAT IS LOVE ? 
 
 way their straining eyes always fixed upon the 
 glittering star. 
 
 In the foreground there was an old Russian 
 peasant. His hands were coarse and knotted. 
 His eyes were sightless. But he, too, was 
 eagerly straining towards the great star. 
 
 It was an extraordinary picture, terrible in its 
 
 concentrated emotion. 
 
 ***** 
 
 Isola stood motionless. She seemed as one in 
 a trance. Then, in a moment, a flood of color 
 mounted to her face. She ran forward and 
 raised her hands to touch the canvas. 
 
 "It's Father's 'Russia'!" 
 
 ***** 
 
 The Princess softly laid her hand on the girl's 
 shoulder. 
 
 "It is very wonderful," she said quietly. 
 "The picture of a nation's ambition ! Russia 
 is still in the dark. It is still night in those vast, 
 limitless tracts of land which lie beyond our 
 great cities. But Russia is awakening. The 
 people are beginning to realize, dimly, that the 
 Star of Liberty the flaming Star of Light, 
 really exists somewhere. And they are grop- 
 ing their way along the path which leads to it. 
 Your father was a great painter. He was also, 
 at heart, a great poet. But not a poet of the de 
 Vesian type."
 
 WHAT IS LOVE <? 257 
 
 Isola turned and looked at her. Her dark 
 eyes were full of tears. Her lips were trembling. 
 She looked lovely; pathetically young. 
 
 The Princess hesitated long. 
 
 Then suddenly she took the girl's hand and 
 led her towards the window. 
 
 "Shall we sit here for a moment? I wish to 
 speak to you. I wish to tell you something." 
 
 Isola's eyes questioned her dumbly. She 
 could not speak. It was with difficulty she 
 forced back the rising sobs. There was a long 
 silence. 
 
 The Princess leaned back in her chair and let 
 her splendid eyes wander out over the gardens 
 underneath. 
 
 The sun had crept down to the edge of the 
 horizon. Its dying rays were still resting in the 
 branches of the great trees, which lent an ap- 
 pearance of vastness to the grounds. A mid- 
 summer evening. The air was still. Even the 
 
 restless butterflies had folded their wings. 
 
 ***** 
 
 The Princess had taken the little carved figure 
 of the Japanese dancer from her writing-table. 
 She was holding it, softly, between her fingers. 
 She was thinking of that evening, in her exqui- 
 site gardens at the Villa Borizoff, in far-away 
 Rome. 
 
 Miles Bering had carved the quaint figure.
 
 258 WHAT IS LOVE ? 
 
 He had told her the story of the dancing-girl 
 who willingly gave up fame and wealth for the 
 sake of Love. He had given her the little carv- 
 ing he had done in memory of Hearn's "Of a 
 dancing-girl!" 
 
 She smiled. 
 
 Then she looked up and met the girl's eager 
 gaze. 
 
 "I loved your father," she said very quietly. 
 "He was the only man I ever loved. And be- 
 cause he has, unconsciously, done a great deal 
 for me, I wish to help you if I can. I think you 
 are in trouble. Will you trust me? Will you 
 take me into your confidence?" 
 
 Isola caught her breath. Her face flushed. 
 Her eyes were full of wonder and awe. 
 
 "You loved him ? My father ?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 There was silence. 
 
 The girl did not dare to speak. She seemed 
 suddenly to have been carried out into the 
 fathomless waters of the great sea of life. 
 
 As the Princess watched her the smile on her 
 lips deepened. 
 
 "I loved him. He loved the woman who 
 became your mother. I never saw him after the 
 night on which we made that mutual confession, 
 but he has remained with me in spirit. He has 
 done very much for me. Through him I have
 
 WHAT IS LOVE <? 259 
 
 come to realize what Love might mean in a 
 woman's life." 
 
 She was smiling, her manner was quite calm. 
 Isola touched her hand timidly. 
 
 "Father knew " 
 
 "Yes. I told him." 
 
 ***** 
 
 Isola leaned back in her chair. She pressed 
 her head hard against the cushions. She was 
 breathless with amazement. Her heart was 
 swelling with pride. It was the most wonderful 
 moment of her life. 
 
 The Princess watched her. At last she spoke 
 again. 
 
 "I have told you this in order that you might 
 realize that I want to be your friend. I do not 
 know you very well, but I think you are in 
 trouble. Will you let me help you ?" 
 
 For a second the girl hesitated. Then she 
 sprang forward and threw herself on her knees. 
 Wild, incoherent words broke from her. Sobs 
 choked her at times, but she went on desperately 
 she told the whole pitiful story. 
 
 As the Princess listened her face grew very 
 hard. She silently stretched out her hand, and 
 
 rested it on the girl's bowed head. 
 
 ***** 
 
 The shadows had fallen. 
 
 Isola's sobs had died away. She was still
 
 260 WHAT IS LOVE 
 
 kneeling. She was very tired, but she was no 
 longer lonely. 
 
 "You don't despise me?" 
 
 Princess Borizoff shook her head. She was 
 smiling. 
 
 "No. I wish very much you had not had this 
 very disagreeable experience; but perhaps it was 
 necessary. It may be your baptism of fire!" 
 
 Isola looked up eagerly. 
 
 "You think I am right to finish the season 
 with Madame Lucienne? It's horrible, but I 
 should so hate to seem a coward." 
 
 " 'Right'? That's a big word. But I don't 
 think it will do harm. The season is nearly 
 over. In August you must go with me to 
 Trouville. Indeed, if your aunt will permit it, 
 I should like you to come and pay me a visit 
 at once. You can go to the theater every eve- 
 ning from here as easily as from the Rue de 
 Douai." 
 
 "You wish me to stay here with you 
 now?" 
 
 "Yes. These people must be made to under- 
 stand, without spoken words, that you do not 
 belong to them. It will do them good. It will 
 do Monsieur de Vesian much good." 
 
 "You mean? Princess! You mean ?" 
 
 "I mean to strike Monsieur de Vesian's name 
 from my visiting-list, naturally." She was smil-
 
 WHAT IS LOVE ? 261 
 
 ing, but no Empress ever looked more regal. 
 "My child, do you realize that if things had 
 been different, if your father had loved me, you 
 might have been my daughter? Do you think 
 I would permit Monsieur de Vesian, or any 
 other person, to insult a child of mine with im- 
 punity? I have power. In such circumstances 
 as these I have no mercy." 
 
 Isola caught her breath. She pressed her lips 
 against the white hand that had touched her 
 hair. 
 
 "Let me love you," she said passionately. 
 "Let me love you. Let me try to show you 
 what I feel what you have done for me, my 
 gratitude " 
 
 She was incoherent. 
 
 The Princess was smiling, but her splendid 
 eyes were dreamy. She looked out over the 
 darkening gardens. 
 
 "Love me if you will, child. Love, when 
 real, is very precious. The 'Lordship of Love 
 is good/ Dante was right when he wrote those 
 words. Love me, but do not speak of grati- 
 tude to me. It is I who have cause to be grate- 
 ful to your father. So grateful that it gives 
 me intense pleasure to realize that I may be 
 able to pay back part of my debt to his daughter. 
 I was a very hard, cold woman when I met him, 
 Isola. I should have remained hard and cold
 
 262 WHAT IS LOVE ? 
 
 all my life if I had not learned through him that 
 it is 
 
 'Love that keeps all the choir of life in chime, 
 Love that is blood within the veins of Time.' 
 
 Unconsciously he made me realize the possi- 
 bilities that lie in the path of a woman who loves, 
 and who is loved, truly. I suffered, a little ; but 
 I am very grateful." 
 
 She was smiling still, but Isola realized that 
 she had almost forgotten her presence. 
 
 Very softly she rose and crossed the room to 
 where the big picture was hanging. There were 
 tears in her eyes when she raised her hand and 
 reverently touched the bold signature on the 
 corner of the canvas.
 
 CHAPTER XVI 
 
 JULES RIVAUD was pacing angrily up and 
 down the luxurious dressing-room in the 
 dome of the Theatre Gerome. 
 
 He and the famous actress had been having a 
 long, very unpleasant interview. He was 
 angry: she was beside herself with fury and 
 excitement. 
 
 As he paced backwards and forwards she 
 crouched on her low divan and watched him. 
 The look in her burning eyes was like that of a 
 tiger in sight of prey. He stopped suddenly and 
 stared at her. 
 
 "It's all d d nonsense," he said roughly. 
 
 "What has come to you? Why do you choose 
 this moment of your life to play the fool?" 
 
 She laughed contemptuously. With one of 
 her old imperious gestures she sprang up and 
 folded the loose laces of her delicate robe round 
 her splendid figure. Then she threw herself full 
 length on the couch. Rivaud watched her. 
 
 "You don't believe me? You won't realize 
 the truth because you don't want to realize it. 
 Bienf If I were not personally concerned in the 
 matter I'd let you realize it at your leisure; but I 
 am concerned vitally. That makes all the 
 difference." 
 
 263
 
 264 WHAT IS LOVE ? 
 
 "You're afraid you may lose a few of your 
 cherished dollars? You have become a great 
 man since I took you up, cher Rivaud. Twenty- 
 five years ago you knew very well what it 
 meant to go supperless to bed! / have made 
 you don't forget that. I don't expect grati- 
 tude, but I think I've a right to look for ordi- 
 nary politeness." 
 
 He made no attempt to smother the oath 
 that rose to his lips. 
 
 "What the devil has politeness, or 4 gratitude 
 either, to do with this? We've made each 
 other, if it comes to that, and we must stand 
 together at this critical moment unless we want 
 to court failure. I've tried again and again to 
 give you a 'polite' hint, but you've refused to 
 take it. Now I'm forced into a corner, and I'm 
 speaking right out. If you want to make one 
 more successful tour in the States you must pull 
 yourself together. They think a lot of you over 
 there, but they won't accept everything " 
 
 He was a hard business man, but he liked 
 the woman who had done so much for him. He 
 was irritated to the point of exasperation. Yet 
 he was sorry for her. 
 
 She stared at him for a full minute. Then 
 she sprang up and caught his arm. 
 
 "What do you mean? You say these people
 
 WHAT IS LOVE ? 265 
 
 these Americans won't accept 'everything'? 
 What do you mean by that?" 
 
 For answer he placed his strong hands on her 
 shoulders and swung her round to face one of 
 the long mirrors. With relentless force he 
 pushed her towards it. 
 
 "That!" he said bitterly. "That !" 
 
 She stared into the face of the mirror. Her 
 white face was quivering. There were little 
 lines hard, relentless lines, framing her chin. 
 There were criss-cross lines lying against the 
 little blue mounds that lay beneath her splendid 
 eyes. The compressed lips were too red; the 
 white flesh on the cheeks drooped ever so 
 slightly; it seemed too white. She was still a 
 splendidly handsome woman, but she looked her 
 age. 
 
 She uttered an inarticulate cry and dashed her 
 hands furiously against the mirror. Rivaud 
 drew her back. With the force of a wild ani- 
 mal she struggled. His grasp tightened round 
 her hands. Suddenly she bent her head and met 
 her small white teeth in the loose flesh on his 
 wrist. 
 
 With an oath he flung her aside violently. 
 
 "That's enough," he said. "That's enough. 
 Either you come to your senses or I cancel all 
 your engagements in America. We've been 
 partners for twenty-five years. Well, it's about
 
 266 WHAT IS LOVE ? 
 
 time that partnership came to an end. I've had 
 enough of it." 
 
 He was wiping away some drops of blood 
 with his handkerchief. He shook out the white 
 square and stared at the stains. He held it 
 towards her. 
 
 "Can you read that lesson or are you really 
 insane?" 
 
 She was again crouching on the divan. She 
 stared at the red stains. Her eyes became sud- 
 denly filled with blinding tears. She was 
 sobbing. 
 
 "Poor Jules forgive me I'm sorry." She 
 caught the injured hand and pressed her hot lips 
 against it. "I'm sorry; but you don't under- 
 stand. You could never understand." 
 
 It was the sudden revulsion of feeling that he 
 had so often witnessed. Something like a smile 
 crept across his rugged face as he stood over 
 her. The cleverest woman remains a woman 
 until the very end ! 
 
 He patted her shoulder. 
 
 "All right it doesn't matter. I have tough 
 skin. It will soon heal. But all the same we 
 two have got to come to an understanding." 
 
 "An understanding?" She repeated his words 
 drearily. "An understanding? I wonder if 
 any man has ever understood any woman 
 since the world began?" She was still sobbing
 
 WHAT IS LOVE 267 
 
 fitfully. Her white lids, already swollen from 
 want of sleep, looked thick and heavy. The 
 droop at the corner of her mouth was piteous. 
 The bones in her cheeks seemed pushing them- 
 selves to the surface. 
 
 The man stared at her, taking in each 
 wrinkle, each change of outline, each quivering 
 nerve. He was weighing the chances in the 
 balance. 
 
 He had not drawn away his hand, and again 
 she pressed her hot lips against it. 
 
 "Jules be good to me. I'm not quite my- 
 self I do not feel quite well perhaps it's the 
 heat or perhaps it's because I never seem to 
 sleep now." 
 
 She flung aside his hand and covered her face. 
 For a moment there was no sound in the flower- 
 decked room except her pitiful sobs. Then she 
 raised her head. 
 
 "No man could ever understand what it 
 means to a woman a beautiful woman to 
 realize that things cannot go on just in the 
 same way forever. Of course, I'm still young 
 much younger than many of the singers and 
 actresses who draw big crowds every night 
 in every capital of Europe. I am still young, 
 but I am not in good health. My nerve has 
 given way because I don't sleep. It's nothing
 
 268 WHAT IS LOVE ? 
 
 more than that. I assure you, Jules nothing 
 more than that." 
 
 She was looking up at him. Tears were 
 coursing down the quivering lines on her white 
 face. For the first time in his life he noticed 
 that her beautiful throat was no longer beauti- 
 ful. Something like a groan passed his lips. 
 He caught her hands and held them, not 
 ungently. 
 
 "Lucienne, my dear woman, this will never 
 do. I don't profess to be a sympathetic man, 
 but I can understand fairly well that the woman 
 who wrote that book about the 'dangerous age' 
 knew what she was about. There is, and must 
 be, a dangerous age in every woman's life, and 
 the only thing to do is to face it out I You talk 
 of those others I suppose you mean Madame 
 Carlino for one? She's getting on for sixty, and 
 still she's drawing crowds every night of her 
 life. Why? Because she has had the sense to 
 face this 'dangerous age' business out, because 
 she no longer plays her old parts. She doesn't 
 give the critics a chance of making invidious 
 comparisons. She has struck out in a new line, 
 and she has made a big success of it. If she 
 wanted to put on 'Romeo and Juliet' now, she 
 would play the role of the Nurse. She would 
 never take chances with Juliet 1" 
 
 He spoke half seriously, but with meaning.
 
 WHAT IS LOVE <? 269 
 
 Lucienne's face suddenly flushed. She got up 
 and walked back to the mirror. For many 
 minutes she stood and stared at her own face. 
 Then her eyes travelled down, and down. 
 
 She looked at Rivaud. 
 
 "You suggest that / should do what Carlino 
 has done?" 
 
 There was infinite pride in her tone, and 
 something of renewed confidence. He shrugged 
 his shoulders. 
 
 "My dear woman I threw out a suggestion. 
 Carlino is a wise woman. She managed to crush 
 the pleasures and excitements of a dozen lives 
 into her best twenty-five years. She didn't 
 bother about what people thought or said; she 
 just went ahead and enjoyed herself! She had 
 what the English call 'a high old time!' And 
 then she shut herself up for a few months 
 you remember that? She said she was taking 
 a rest-cure. It's my belief she was arranging 
 her stage for a second series of successes. She 
 was shaking hands with Father Time and get- 
 ting him to line up on her side ! That's my 
 belief. At any rate, she came back from that 
 famous 'rest-cure' another woman : just as care- 
 less of on dit, just as audacious, just as success- 
 ful but different! She set herself to make a 
 fresh fortune out of the 'dangerous age,' and, 
 by heaven ! she's doing it hand over hand."
 
 270 WHAT IS LOVE <? 
 
 "You want me to be like Carlino?" 
 
 She stood and looked straight at him. Her 
 mood had changed again. She had grown hard. 
 Rivaud laughed contemptuously. 
 
 "I want you to be yourself but with some 
 common-sense knocked into your head. I want 
 you to realize that Nature is the one thing we 
 can't afford to fall out with. For Nature 
 marches on in all circumstances. You cannot 
 make it stand still. No one can. The day must 
 come in the life of the most beautiful woman 
 when she is no longer in her first youth, when 
 what the dressmakers call 'la ligne' changes, 
 when voice and manner, and thoughts and emo- 
 tions not to speak of the face all change; at 
 first almost imperceptibly; then with a little 
 rush ; then with the violence of a river at flood. 
 Carlino recognized this law. Instead of fight- 
 ing it she turned it to her advantage. That's 
 what I call common-sense." 
 
 She took a silver-framed hand-mirror from a 
 table She held it up. A cynical smile curved 
 her red lips. 
 
 "You are in a great hurry to make room for 
 your new star, Rivaud! Unfortunately for the 
 success of your plans, I have not yet reached 
 Marie Carlino's 'dangerous age' ! I haven't 
 been sleeping well lately, but Dr. Puyanne has 
 seen to that. I shall sleep to-night!"
 
 WHAT IS LOVE "? 271 
 
 Rivaud came to her side. 
 
 "You're going to start on sleeping drugs? If 
 you do that the end isn't far off." 
 
 "What 'end'?" 
 
 She spoke violently. All her life she had 
 given full sway to the emotions of each moment. 
 She had arrived at a time when it would have 
 been impossible for her to control herself, even 
 if she had wished to do so. 
 
 Rivaud was angry. And when his temper 
 was roused he was often very brutal. 
 
 "The end of your public career." 
 
 He flung the cruel words right in her face. 
 She winced. 
 
 "You think " She stopped short. Then 
 
 she deliberately turned her back on him and 
 opened some letters that were lying on a table. 
 He watched her. He was in the mood to be 
 aggressive. 
 
 "I think if you don't break with de Vesian 
 you'll end your days in an asile des pauvres. 
 You haven't laid by a sou. You're heavily in 
 debt. If you go on as you're going at present 
 you'll find yourself playing to empty houses. 
 What then ? Do you think the lord of the Villa 
 Floralia will marry you?" 
 
 He intended to rouse her. And he succeeded. 
 She literally sprang towards him her great
 
 272 WHAT IS LOVE ? 
 
 eyes blazing her face ashen white, as it always 
 was in moments of intense excitement. 
 
 "You are a brute a heartless devil a 
 vulgar upstart. You have lived on me and on 
 my earnings. I, and I alone, have saved you 
 from prison, for you have sailed very close to 
 the wind more than once. I, and I alone, have 
 made it possible for you to eat well and drink 
 well and to live in the best hotels. I have made 
 you, I tell you made you moulded you 
 from a lump of common clay. You owe every- 
 thing to me, and still you dare to turn and be- 
 tray me! You are infatuated about that 
 miserable fool of a girl. You want to make a 
 brilliant star of Isola Bering. You want me 
 to retire to make room for her! You want all 
 these things, but you cannot have them, for I 
 am still the greatest artist on the stage. I am 
 still the idol of Europe and yes of America 
 too. You can't do without me, but I can do 
 without you. Just as easily as I dismissed 
 Magda Cheret, so I can dismiss you. If I am 
 in your debt, take the matter into the courts. 
 I shall know how to look after my own 
 interests." 
 
 She screamed out the last words. For a mo- 
 ment Rivaud thought she would strike him. He 
 raised his arm to ward off the blow. 
 
 She laughed aloud.
 
 WHAT IS LOVE ? 273 
 
 "You need not be afraid I would not soil 
 my hands by touching you. Miserable coward 
 that you are !" 
 
 She looked really magnificent. It crossed 
 Rivaud's active mind that they might rake in 
 many thousands of dollars with a piece that al- 
 lowed her to appear in such a role as this! 
 
 She looked old, fearfully old and worn, but 
 she was superb. 
 
 He drew a long breath. 
 
 "That's all right, my dear. Calm down! 
 I'm sorry if I was rude, but you got my temper 
 up. This is a silly game we two are playing 
 let us make an end of it. There's a chance of 
 doing a splendid business in the States if all 
 goes well, but they won't stand Lery's Jeune 
 fille over there. I'm not going to give them a 
 chance of booing it off the boards. We have 
 the old repertoire, of course, but we must have 
 one or two fresh things. De Vesian has a little 
 thing on hand which might make a hit if you 
 find it suits you. The idea is good, but it's only 
 in embryo. Has he mentioned it?" 
 
 She had been listening, at first sullenly 
 then with concealed interest. At the final words 
 she looked up. 
 
 "I fancy he said something about it, but I did 
 not think he was serious. He has always had 
 an objection to writing directly for the stage."
 
 274 WHAT IS LOVE 
 
 She spoke eagerly. Rivaud understood the 
 tone. He was well aware that the poet had not 
 spoken to her of his "embryo" play. 
 
 He smiled. 
 
 "Talk to him about it," he said quietly. 
 "Give the matter your attention it's worth 
 while. You've been spending a good deal more 
 than you know lately. It is absolutely necessary 
 either to make the tour in the States a big suc- 
 cess, or to drop it here and now. I can't sec 
 my way to making the necessary outlay unless 
 I'm fairly sure of good returns." 
 
 She stared at him. 
 
 She was feeling strangely tired. 
 
 Lately this horrible sensation of physical and 
 mental fatigue seemed to haunt her. It caught 
 her at the most unexpected moments. 
 
 She never stood on ceremony with her inti- 
 mates. She did not do so now. With a careless 
 gesture she indicated the door. 
 
 Rivaud nodded. He was smiling. Without 
 a word he passed out.
 
 CHAPTER XVII 
 
 IF I were you I should take a pop-gun and 
 go in search of imaginary big game ! Paris 
 is laughing at you. And when Paris elects to 
 laugh at, instead of with, one of her favorites 
 she is dangerous. I advise you to get that pop- 
 gun." 
 
 The Comtesse de Vesian was laughing mali- 
 ciously. She was standing on the broad terrace 
 of the Villa Floralia, talking to her son. They 
 had been having quite a long conversation, for 
 them: for once in her irregular life the Comtesse 
 had made an effort. 
 
 De Vesian looked at her. If what she had 
 said if the laughter of his beloved Paris had 
 disturbed him he made no sign. He looked as 
 cool and fresh as did his suit of white linen. 
 
 He smiled. 
 
 "You are very kind, but no ! 'Big game' does 
 not attract me at the moment. I prefer to think 
 of the planches." 
 
 "Trouville?" She put up her long-handled 
 glasses and peered at him. "Gabrielle Borizoff 
 is going there, to her Villa. And she is taking 
 that girl with her." 
 
 "Yes?" 
 
 275
 
 276 WHAT IS LOVE ? 
 
 "You really want to be cut openly, all along 
 the planches?'' 
 
 His smile deepened. He shrugged his shoul- 
 ders slightly. 
 
 "You think that wouldn't happen? But it 
 would! It will if you give the Borizoff woman 
 a chance. She fears no one neither God nor 
 man, and she has got her back up. You have 
 always sneered at on dlt, and you've been right, 
 but no one can afford to sneer at ridicule when 
 it's backed by the right people. Gabrielle 
 Borizoff can carry her world your world 
 with her absolutely. Already every one is 
 whispering that you are, after all, a little too 
 'cabotinf Even the newspapers are poking fun 
 at the poet who was too fervent at the wrong 
 moment and with the wrong person!" 
 
 He still looked at her steadily, but his blue 
 eyes flickered, A close observer might have 
 noted that his finely shaped mouth was pressed 
 into a hard line. 
 
 His vanity had been wounded, and his amour 
 propre. He had long affected to despise public 
 opinion in truth he actually did despise it 
 and public opinion had suddenly taken its 
 revenge. 
 
 The day before, at a reception given by the 
 Russian Ambassador, Princess Borizoff had cut 
 him directly. Several of her intimate friends
 
 WHAT IS LOVE <? 277 
 
 had cut him. He remembered that on leaving 
 the Ambassador's wife who was a relation of 
 Princess Borizoff had bowed very coldly: she 
 had not permitted him to kiss her hand. 
 
 And at that exclusive reception Isola Dering 
 had been the center of attraction. She was stay- 
 ing with Princess Borizoff. She went every- 
 where under her chaperonage. The girl was 
 still playing every night in La Jeune fille de 
 Demain, but she came and went in one of the 
 gorgeous Borizoff carriages. Every night the 
 Princess herself accompanied her to the Theatre 
 Gerome. Every night she sat in her box and 
 entertained a party of friends. 
 
 Tout Paris was talking ! 
 
 Tout Paris was amused, interested, intensely 
 excited. At the clubs the absorbing subjects of 
 conversation were the beauty and charm of the 
 young English girl, the extraordinary situation, 
 the possibilities of the future, and Guy de 
 Vesian's ridiculous faux pas. For the Princess 
 had been very explicit. She had explained in 
 the right quarters what had happened. She her- 
 self treated Isola's craze for the stage as the 
 passing fancy of a wilful girl. All her friends 
 and the numberless persons who longed 
 vainly to be counted amongst her acquaintances 
 followed her lead. 
 
 Isola was the most admired and sought-after
 
 278 WHAT IS LOVE <? 
 
 girl in Paris. Every night the Theatre Gerome 
 was packed. 
 
 Jules Rivaud was nervously jubilant. It was 
 
 a magnificent advertisement, but 
 
 ***** 
 
 The Comtesse de Vesian gathered up her 
 muslin skirts and drew on her long, white 
 gloves. 
 
 "I am going to see Vera de Boisgelin. Do 
 you care to come?" 
 
 Her son shook his head. She laughed mali- 
 ciously. 
 
 "Perhaps you're right. Vera has an active 
 tongue! I'm going to see her because I want 
 to know exactly how things are going. For my- 
 self c'est egal! But it doesn't amuse me to 
 see you laughed at. I suppose I really must be 
 getting old." 
 
 She laughed unpleasantly. A servant ad- 
 vanced down the terrace bearing a card on a 
 silver tray. She glanced at it, then she turned 
 to her son. 
 
 "I beg your pardon your visitor, not mine. 
 Well au revoir." 
 
 There was an evil smile on her cynical old 
 face as she swept her girlish draperies across 
 the terrace and abruptly entered the house. She- 
 was eccentric, but she was a woman who had 
 all her life been the friend of crowned heads.
 
 WHAT IS LOVE "? 279 
 
 She despised the genre "cabotin" with all her 
 strength. 
 
 De Vesian glanced at the card; his face did 
 not change, but a veil suddenly descended over 
 it a thin veil of disgust. 
 
 He said a few words to the servant, and then 
 he too crossed the terrace. Scenes did not please 
 him in any circumstances, but scenes on his beau- 
 tiful terrace were anathema. 
 
 ***** 
 
 In the poet's luxurious "den" at the far end 
 of the Villa Lucienne Gerome was pacing up 
 and down. 
 
 She was dressed in white from head to foot, 
 diaphanous white stuffs that wound themselves 
 about her splendid figure and revealed its out- 
 line while seeming to conceal it. It was a 
 Raoul Brossan "creation" clever, unexpected, 
 "inedite"! 
 
 The afternoon was very warm. She had 
 taken off her big picture hat. Her natural in- 
 stinct to search for subtle effect had prompted 
 her to throw its long velvet strings over her arm. 
 She looked, as she intended to look, as though 
 she might have stepped from a Winterhalter 
 canvas. 
 
 When de Vesian entered the room she was 
 standing still for a moment under the shadow of 
 a giant palm. Brilliant rays of sunshine were
 
 280 WHAT IS LOVE <? 
 
 resting on her fair hair and touching it into liv- 
 ing gold. Her eyes looked immense like 
 globes of soft black velvet. 
 
 It was a "Gerome pose" of the best order. 
 But the poet found himself suddenly reminded 
 of his mother. 
 
 She, too, affected muslin gowns and picture 
 hats and Romney mantles ! She, too, was wont 
 to look out from under her lashes in a 
 coquettish way; but then she did it so openly, 
 with such blatant artificiality, that it was amus- 
 ing even attractive. 
 
 He crossed the room and pressed his lips to 
 Lucienne's extended hand. For a second they 
 stood face to face, then with a low cry she flung 
 her arms about his neck and kissed him on the 
 mouth many times. 
 
 "I love you," she whispered. "My God 
 how I love you how I long to be with you 
 always !" 
 
 He did not touch her, neither did he shrink 
 back; he stood motionless. 
 
 There was silence. Lucienne looked up into 
 his eyes. 
 
 "Guy ! What is it ? What's the matter with 
 you ? Why do you look at me like that ?" 
 
 Her voice rose almost to a scream. He 
 smiled and shook his head. 
 
 "Softly," he said. "Chere amie softly."
 
 WHAT IS LOVE ? 281 
 
 For answer she framed his face with her 
 hands and stared into his eyes. 
 
 "You love her that little idiot? You love 
 her and you're afraid to tell me? You're afraid 
 to be honest with me?" 
 
 Very quietly he took her hands from his face. 
 He held them. 
 
 "All this excitement is very bad for you. Sit 
 down for a moment quietly. Then we can 
 have some tea together." 
 
 He drew her towards a chair, but she tore her 
 hands from his grasp. 
 
 "No! No no no! I'm determined to 
 know the truth ! You're infatuated with this 
 girl who has made you the laughing-stock of 
 Paris ? You think you can have her for a petite 
 am'ie, but you can't ever! I've settled that!" 
 
 She laughed wildly. His face grew white. 
 He looked at her steadily. 
 
 "You are speaking of Mile. Bering?" 
 
 "Yes ! Of the wonderful jeune fille de 
 demain that you and Lery have created between 
 you. I knew what was going on. I knew what 
 Lery wanted he wrote it pretty plainly in one 
 of his letters. The little Bering girl needed 
 'experiences' to make her perfect, and you were 
 chosen as the best person to supply them! To 
 express love she needed to understand love, and 
 you were chosen as her teacher! Oh it was
 
 282 WHAT IS LOVE ? 
 
 an excellent plot. And it might have had a 
 big success if only you had had the courage to 
 take me into your confidence. But no you 
 elected to try to deceive me, you elected to throw 
 dust in my eyes. You gave me the Marie 
 Antoinette pearls for your Fete and you made 
 violent love to her down there in that dark 
 corner of the rose-garden ! You had the moon 
 and the tziganes to back you up, but you for- 
 got that 7 was present. When you chose that 
 particular seat you forgot that behind it there 
 is a thick hedge of laurels thick enough to 
 hide any one who cared to listen !" 
 
 She had worked herself up to fury. Standing 
 before him, her eyes flashing and a brilliant 
 color burning in her cheeks, she looked mag- 
 nificent. 
 
 He looked at her in silence. Then he said: 
 
 "You played the part of spy? Rather an un- 
 worthy role. Don't you think so?" 
 
 His quiet, supremely controlled manner had 
 always had the power to excite her. At times 
 she had adored it. At times it had driven her 
 to frenzy. There was something in him that 
 she had never been able to touch. 
 
 " 'Spy'? You dare to call me that? 'Spy'? 
 .'And have I not the right to 'spy' on you? 
 Have I not the right to know what you are
 
 WHAT IS LOVE ? 283 
 
 doing and saying? Do you not belong to me 
 absolutely?" 
 
 He smiled. Very gently he shook his head. 
 
 "Chere amie no ! I belong to myself." 
 
 "You mean " 
 
 "Just what I have said. I belong to myself. 
 It is necessary to me to hold the threads of my 
 own life. What talent I have cannot develop 
 if it is restrained." 
 
 "Guy!" 
 
 It was a pitiful cry, that single word. In it 
 there was a woman's despair. De Vesian stood 
 very still. The scene, to him, was intensely 
 painful. He hated to hurt a woman's vanity, 
 especially this woman, who had so long been 
 devoted to him. He hated to wound anything 
 that had once attracted him, but it was neces- 
 sary. He stood and looked at her. Something 
 in his blue eyes enraged her. She clenched her 
 hands. 
 
 "You are trying to blind me again. You are 
 trying to avoid the subject of that girl, but I 
 tell you I know. I was behind the hedge I 
 heard all you said! And the next day I told 
 her the whole truth. I told her of the famous 
 plot that was to make her a great actress! I 
 told her that you had been engaged by Lery to 
 make love to her! Oh, I assure you, I made her
 
 284 WHAT IS LOVE 9 
 
 understand. Even you would find it hard to at- 
 tract her now." 
 
 Her face was twitching. Her lips were dis- 
 torted. Her dark eyes were blazing with fury. 
 She was overwrought almost mad with jeal- 
 ousy. She was determined to regain possession 
 of him at all costs. For the moment he might 
 resent what she had done, but later on he would 
 realize that her action had been prompted by 
 her love her wild, reckless love. Like so 
 many other mistaken women, she cherished the 
 idea that a dying perhaps dead passion may 
 be revived by a violent appeal to gratitude. Be- 
 cause she had given everything, she had the 
 right to look for a generous return. So she 
 argued. So women, through all the ages, have 
 argued vainly. 
 
 There was something very definite about the 
 way in which de Vesian led her to the couch 
 under the giant palm. In silence he pulled for- 
 ward a low chair for himself. He was furiously 
 angry. But no sign of his feelings betrayed it- 
 self in his face. He seemed unnaturally calm. 
 Lucienne Gerome leaned forward and rested her 
 face on her hands. She had grown suddenly 
 tired. For a moment there was silence. Then 
 the poet spoke. 
 
 "What you have done is unworthy. You will
 
 WHAT IS LOVE <? 285 
 
 realize this later on, but, after all, it is not a 
 matter of consequence. Life is made up of 
 phases. We pass on from one to another. It 
 is always best to pass quietly, with dignity if 
 possible." 
 
 '"Phases'?" She stared at him dully. 
 "What do you mean by that?" 
 
 "The meaning is so simple. Nothing in this 
 life stands still. We are perpetually moving 
 on or moving backwards. Our bodies are al- 
 ways changing, our minds are always changing. 
 What seems beautiful and desirable to us to-day 
 will seem 'impossible' to-morrow !" He was 
 smiling. In his nature there were depths of 
 cruelty. Some crafty demon within him had 
 suddenly stirred them. He was angry. For the 
 moment he was relentless. "We amuse our- 
 selves by talking of 'forever and forever' I 
 We delight in pretending that love is deathless ! 
 Of course, in a sense it is deathless, because it 
 is always capable of breaking into fresh bud 
 and blossom. But love is a nomad that essen- 
 tially. No one can hold it in check. No one 
 can confine it with chains. No one can force it 
 to remain in one place 'forever and forever' I" 
 
 He looked straight into her fevered eyes. He 
 spoke very softly, as was his wont. There was 
 something caressing in his tone.
 
 286 WHAT IS LOVE 
 
 But the hand of death seemed to touch the 
 woman's heart. 
 
 A wild appeal stole into her eyes. Her face 
 quivered horribly. Tears rolled down her 
 cheeks. 
 
 "Guy! My dearest, my beloved, my life 
 why do you say that to me? Are you trying 
 to punish me? Are you trying to make me 
 suffer, for a moment, just to punish me for being 
 a foolish 'spy' ? Guy ! Are you angry with 
 me? Don't you know, feel, that it was all be- 
 cause I adore you? because I belong to you 
 body and soul ? because I cannot endure the idea 
 that any other human thing should enter into 
 your life intimately for a single hour? Don't 
 you realize that you are more to me than ever 
 Maurice de Saxe was to Adrienne? that I am 
 yours utterly, utterly?" 
 
 Suddenly she broke down. She covered her 
 face with her hands. Lying back amongst the 
 big cushions she abandoned herself to violent 
 emotion. Her whole body trembled. 
 
 De Vesian sat back in his chair and watched 
 her. 
 
 His thoughts were very bitter. He was a 
 proud man. He had suffered hideously when 
 Princess Borizoff had looked straight into his 
 eyes and given him the cut direct.
 
 WHAT IS LOVE ? 287 
 
 His world had been present. His world had 
 
 understood. 
 
 ***** 
 
 He felt furious. But side by side with fury 
 there marched another virile emotion. 
 
 Isola Dering! How exquisite, adorable, 
 spring-like she had been. 
 
 Side by side with one of the most famous 
 beauties of Europe she had held her own. 
 
 She was but a girl, but in type she was the 
 equal of Princess Borizoff. 
 
 She was adorable. 
 
 And he had lost her. 
 
 Lost her, first and last, through the agency of 
 the woman who was sobbing amongst the cush- 
 ions over there. 
 
 For he persuaded himself that he would never 
 have dreamed of approaching the girl, as he had 
 approached her, if he had not been saturated 
 with theater traditions theater instincts. 
 
 She had been right, his mother many times 
 right. 
 
 The "cabotin" influence is fatal to a man of 
 genius. It clogs his finer intuitions. It dulls his 
 imagination. It casts a veil of garish glitter 
 
 over Nature. 
 
 ***** 
 
 The woman on the couch stirred.
 
 288 WHAT IS LOVE ? 
 
 She slowly raised herself. She sat up straight 
 and stared at him. 
 
 She looked dreadful. Unconsciously de 
 Vesian uttered a low cry and started to his feet. 
 It seemed to him that he had suddenly grown 
 old quite old. 
 
 Lucienne's eyes followed him as she too stood 
 up. She was fearfully tired. 
 
 She raised her hands to her hair and 
 smoothed the ruffled waves. 
 
 Then very slowly she walked to his side. 
 
 He was not looking at her. She stealthily 
 followed in the track of his eyes. Before her, 
 let into a panel, there was an immense mirror. 
 He was gazing into it. In the depths of the 
 mirror their eyes met. 
 
 There was silence. 
 
 Then the woman broke into wild laughter 
 that ended in screams. 
 
 "No ! No, no, no! Guy it's only because I 
 am tired, desperately tired to-morrow I shall 
 be all right again to-morrow " 
 
 She rushed forward and beat against the cold 
 glass. Her eyes were streaming. The nerves 
 of her face were twitching horribly. There 
 were lines dear God! such pitiful lines, about 
 her mouth. 
 
 "No ! No! I am not like that, I am not like 
 that Guy Guy "
 
 WHAT IS LOVE ? 289 
 
 She felt stifled. The scream of agony seemed 
 to choke her. For a second she stood and stared 
 in the glass at her quivering face. And as she 
 stared she saw the door on the opposite side of 
 che room open, and the figure of the man she 
 adored pass out.
 
 CHAPTER XVIII 
 
 A HOT, still night in late July, the last 
 night of the season at the Theatre 
 Gerome. All the other leading theaters of 
 Paris had closed their doors weeks before, but 
 certain circumstances had made La Jeune fille de 
 Demain such a phenomenal success that Jules 
 Rivaud had altered his plans. The Theatre 
 Gerome remained open three weeks longer than 
 usual. 
 
 On this, the last night, it was crowded to 
 excess. But the eager faces in stalls and boxes 
 were unfamiliar. They represented the great 
 moving mass of tourists who always throng 
 Paris at this time of the year, many English, 
 many, many Americans, not a few French peo- 
 ple from the Provinces. 
 
 There was excitement in the air. The famous 
 play had been discussed in the newspapers ; torn 
 to pieces in clubs; sneered at, or smiled at, ac- 
 cording to individual temperament, across sup- 
 per tables. Every one wanted to see Isola 
 Dering ! Every one twisted and turned in order 
 to get a good view of the loge in which Princess 
 Borizoff was wont to appear nightly. For she 
 had carried out her plan. She had constituted 
 290
 
 WHAT IS LOVE ? 291 
 
 herself the friend and protector of the young 
 English girl who had made such an extraordi- 
 nary sensation in the role of "Madeleine 
 Delorme." Isola was staying with her at the 
 Hotel Borizoff. Every evening they drove to- 
 gether to the Theatre. Every night the Prin- 
 cess took the girl back in her luxurious car. It 
 was a curious position, unique in the annals of 
 Paris theater life. No wonder it attracted gen- 
 eral attention ! 
 
 So far as Princess Borizoff was concerned, she 
 had simply carried out her own wishes tran- 
 quilly. She had never at any time consulted 
 public opinion ; she did not do so now. She did 
 just what seemed good to her. And the natural 
 result was that all the world bowed before her 
 unspoken dictates. Isola Bering was uni- 
 versally admired and envied. Her stage experi- 
 ence was looked on as a clever, highly original 
 escapade. People vied with each other in en- 
 deavoring to detect a flaw in her French accent ! 
 
 And the girl herself? Was she happy? 
 
 She would, just then, have found it hard to 
 answer the question. 
 
 She was amazed, delighted with her sur- 
 roundings, enchanted with the Princess, proud, 
 beyond words, of her friendship. She felt that 
 she was living in a dream. Sometimes she
 
 292 WHAT IS LOVE ? 
 
 longed for a touch of reality; sometimes she 
 dreaded the awakening. 
 
 Her experiences at the Theatre Gerome had 
 been terrible. They had remained terrible. 
 For Lucienne Gerome had entered upon a new 
 and extraordinary state of existence. She re- 
 mained shut up in her dressing-room all day 
 only appearing when the curtain rose. She 
 rarely spoke. She seemed like a woman turned 
 to stone, but her eyes blazed with cruel light. 
 Isola often felt that she could not endure their 
 baleful stare another hour. They terrified her. 
 But their influence was magnetic. The girl lived 
 in dread of a call to that isolated room in the 
 dome of the theater. She knew she could not 
 have dared to refuse. But to find herself alone 
 with that silent woman? Eagerly, fervently, 
 the girl counted the hours until the last night. 
 She never spoke of her fears to Princess 
 Borizoff, but she often felt that it would be im- 
 possible for her to hold on until the end. She 
 
 was really frightened. 
 
 ***** 
 
 People were talking and laughing gaily. The 
 house looked very brilliant, though the dresses 
 were not so rich and lovely as on the night of 
 the premiere. Innumerable opera-glasses were 
 levelled at the big loge in which Princess 
 Borizoff was sitting. She was dressed in glitter-
 
 WHAT IS LOVE ? 293 
 
 ing black materials. One of her famous ropes 
 of pearls hung low over her bust and rested on 
 her folded hands. She wore a cluster of roses 
 at her waist, but no other ornaments. She 
 seemed to be alone in her box. But shortly after 
 the curtain rose some one slipped in and took a 
 seat, in the shadows behind her. 
 
 She was a very clever woman, but she had not 
 found it an easy task to keep Robin Underwood 
 in London during those two, almost three, event- 
 ful weeks. She had written to him daily. And 
 he had written to her. 
 
 She had been explicit yet guarded. 
 
 He had been fiercely impatient. 
 
 In the end she had had her way. Robin had 
 remained in England. He had not heralded his 
 return. Isola had not the least idea that he was 
 in the theater. Or in Paris ! 
 
 Princess Borizoff had seen the play so many 
 times that she almost knew the words by heart. 
 She leaned back in her chair. 
 
 Lucienne Gerome made her entry. A sigh of 
 suppressed excitement ran through the crowded 
 house. The Princess leaned forward. A sec- 
 ond later she took up her glass and looked 
 through it. Her example was followed by al- 
 most every one in the theater, for the great 
 actress looked extraordinary !
 
 294 WHAT IS LOVE ? 
 
 She had neglected to make up, or she had in- 
 tentionally made up white. She looked ghastly. 
 Her lips, naturally very red, had been touched 
 with crimson. There were brown shadows 
 under her dark eyes. They looked immense: 
 curiously menacing. Even her voice seemed 
 changed. It vibrated with emotion, but there 
 was a sharp edge on the golden notes. One 
 seemed to be listening to a fine instrument which 
 was hopelessly out of tune. One or two of 
 the strangers giggled. Some one called out 
 "hus s s h" in hissing tones. A wave of ex- 
 citement passed over the house. Every one 
 seemed waiting for something. 
 
 The play went on. Isola looked exquisite, 
 but she was so painfully nervous that at times 
 her voice could not be heard beyond the first 
 rows of stalls. Robin Underwood spoke some 
 words in the ear of the Princess. She turned 
 and tried to quiet him. He leaned back into the 
 shadow. His hands were tightly clenched. His 
 face was set. In obedience to the whispered 
 commands he was trying hard to control him- 
 self, but she was suffering I He knew it. He 
 saw it. It was horrible damnable that she 
 should be there on a public stage, with "all those 
 idiots" staring at her.
 
 WHAT IS LOVE ? 295 
 
 Still the play dragged on. The famous sec- 
 ond act was half finished. Lucienne Gerome 
 was looking so relentless so worn so terribly 
 old that every one was ridiculing the idea of 
 her having a young lover! Every one's sym- 
 pathies were with him when he turned from her 
 and made violent love to her daughter. 
 
 Mother and daughter were on the stage alone. 
 
 The great, vital scene of the play was un- 
 folding itself. 
 
 The distracted mother was making her piti- 
 ful final appeal. "He is my life all my 
 life ! Madeleine ! I adore him I worship him 
 I cannot live without him I cannot / 
 cannot " 
 
 Lucienne Gerome had flung herself on her 
 knees before the girl. Tears were streaming 
 down her white cheeks. Her head was thrown 
 back in an ecstacy of wild appeal. 
 
 She was magnificent, but she was terrible, for 
 she looked old and despairing. 
 
 For a moment there was silence in the thea- 
 ter. Every one felt that there was something 
 wrong something that they could not under- 
 stand something unnatural. 
 
 There was silence. Then a jubilant tourist in 
 the upper boxes began to laugh loudly. The 
 laugh was taken up by some of those around 
 him. Then a loud voice again sent the hissing
 
 296 WHAT IS LOVE ? 
 
 "hus s s h" through the air. The spell 
 was broken. An uproar began. There were 
 many who applauded vehemently, but there were 
 many who hissed. 
 
 The obvious age of the mother had made the 
 scene ridiculous. 
 
 Huge prices had been demanded for seats. 
 People had a right to express their feelings. 
 
 For a full minute the uproar lasted. 
 
 Lucienne Gerome had risen to her feet and 
 advanced to the front of the stage. She was 
 staring out at the excited house. There was 
 no quiver on her face now. It was extraordi- 
 narily still. 
 
 Seeing her stand like that in absolute silence 
 the house became more and more excited. 
 The applause was vehement, the laughter up- 
 roarious. And in between there came the 
 ominous sound of hissing. 
 
 She let her arms fall at her sides. For a sec- 
 ond longer she stood perfectly still and gazed 
 out into space. 
 
 Then she suddenly turned and looked up at 
 one of the boxes. 
 
 De Vesian was there. As their eyes met he 
 leaned well forward and patted his hands to- 
 gether. He was smiling. 
 
 Lucienne looked round. The stage was 
 epmty, for the young girl had fled.
 
 WHAT IS LOVE * 297 
 
 She, too, smiled, faintly. 
 
 With one of her famous gestures she raised 
 her hand. She was holding the little phial con- 
 taining the poison with which "Madeleine's" 
 mother was to end her life. 
 
 She put it to her lips. 
 
 Then she flung it aside and slowly walked to 
 a couch in the middle of the stage. She threw 
 herself on it and covered her face in her hands. 
 
 Suddenly the curtain fell. 
 
 ***** 
 
 The house was silent. 
 
 Many of those present had seen the play be- 
 fore. They knew that this was something new. 
 
 What did it mean? 
 
 Behind the curtain there was a trampling of 
 feet. 
 
 Voices, frightened full of horror could be 
 heard. Some one screamed. A girl's piteous 
 voice cried out, "Oh, Monsieur Jules, what is the 
 matter with her what is it ?" 
 
 At the sound of that voice Robin Underwood 
 sprang to his feet and rushed from the box. 
 Princess Borizoff hurried after him. 
 
 A moment later, in some mysterious way, the 
 truth became known. 
 
 Lucienne Gerome had taken poison. 
 
 She was dying.
 
 'THE LORDSHIP OF LOVE" 
 
 "Once on a time I thought 
 
 Love was a thing for play: 
 Since I loved you I know 
 
 'Tis a thing for the judgment day!" 
 
 THE little station at Stutly a picturesque 
 village in the heart of north Devon 
 was still garlanded with trails of ivy and wreaths 
 of wild flowers. 
 
 Across the iron gates of Stutly Priory a long 
 strip of white, bearing, in red letters, the word 
 "WELCOME," still waved proudly. 
 
 In the big, ivy-covered house itself there was 
 a pleasant hum of excitement. Smart-looking 
 maids in immaculate caps and aprons wore white 
 roses pinned on the bodices of their neat black 
 dresses. The majestic-looking coachman who 
 had driven "Mr. and Mrs. Robby" from the 
 station was taking a cup of tea in the house- 
 keeper's room, and he, too, had an immense 
 nosegay of roses in his buttonhole. Every one 
 had something to say about the bride. The con- 
 sensus of opinion might be summed up in the 
 words of the first footman, a tall youth in 
 bottle-green livery "She's a stunner!"
 
 WHAT IS LOVE ? 299 
 
 It was a glorious evening in September. On 
 the distant mountains there was a carpet of 
 golden bracken. The leaves on the great trees 
 in the park were turning red and brown 
 slowly. 
 
 In the gardens there was still a blaze of roses. 
 Under "Mr. Robby's" instructions the per- 
 fumed blossoms had been protected and cared 
 for, with minute attention, in order that they 
 might make a brave show at the home-coming. 
 
 On the broad terrace that overlooked the sea 
 there were two persons a boy and a girl. 
 
 The girl was leaning over the low balustrade. 
 She was dressed in white. A shady hat covered 
 with soft white feathers lay on a chair close by. 
 At her breast there was a cluster of moss-roses. 
 She was exquisite ; but in the depths of her dark, 
 dreamy eyes there was a shadow of pain. It 
 seemed to her that it would be long before the 
 memory of that last terrible night at the Theatre 
 Gerome faded.' 
 
 Robin was standing close to her. His blue 
 eyes were blazing with triumph. There was on 
 his face a look of tender reverence that 
 amounted to open adoration. 
 
 He looked splendid in his gray suit and dandy 
 white waistcoat. In his buttonhole there was a 
 sprig of orange-blossom! Isola had protested 
 against this, but the protest had been unheeded.
 
 300 WHAT IS LOVE ? 
 
 He looked splendid and radiantly triumph- 
 ant a bridegroom who was unfeignedly proud 
 of his position and who wished all the world to 
 recognize it. 
 
 And yet he was not quite a new-made bride- 
 groom, for the wedding had taken place in Paris 
 ten days before, and the early days of the honey- 
 moon had been passed at Princess Borizoff's 
 villa at Trouville; but this was the real home- 
 coming ! 
 
 Robin had declared loudly that it was neces- 
 sary for him to wear a sprig of orange-blossom, 
 of generous size, when he stepped from the train 
 at Stutly station ; and, of course, he had had his 
 way as usual. 
 
 Isola looked up in his glowing face. She 
 smiled shyly. He leaned over her and gently 
 took possession of her little white hands. Very 
 softly he kissed them on the back and on the 
 palm. 
 
 "You think you'll like it?" 
 
 He glanced quickly over the gardens and 
 park, then his eyes wandered out to the nearest 
 mountain. 
 
 "It all belongs, to us as far as you can see 
 on that side, and some this way, too." 
 
 She nodded.
 
 WHAT IS LOVE <? 301 
 
 "It's lovely. I never thought England could 
 be like this. I only wish " 
 
 She stopped short. Robin bent lower. 
 
 "Darling! Darling what do you wish?" 
 
 "I wish I could be quite sure your mother 
 liked it. That is to say, that she liked me." 
 
 Robin laughed. 
 
 "That? My sweetheart, you may set your 
 mind at rest on that score. The mater is the 
 second dearest and sweetest person in the world. 
 She's a little eaten up with the notion that / am 
 as precious as an auk's egg, but you two will get 
 on like a house on fire. It would have been all 
 right in any case, but since auntie has taken you 
 under her wing the mater has come to see that 
 that beastly theater life in Paris isn't so bad if 
 it's taken the right way. Of course, at first she 
 loathed the idea ; but then I loathed it, too, and 
 you haven't many doubts about me have 
 you?" 
 
 "Not many!" She was laughing softly, but 
 the look of anxiety had not left her eyes. The 
 fact that Princess Borizoff had adopted her, in 
 conjunction with "Aunt Jessica," had made a 
 good deal of difference that was certain. But 
 she was more than a little afraid of Robin's 
 mother. He leaned over the balustrade, close 
 by her side. One of his brown hands held hers 
 in prison. She could feel his heart beating
 
 302 WHAT IS LOVE ? 
 
 through the breast-pocket of the festive coat. 
 She was tremendously happy, but the shadow of 
 the past refused to leave her. Over and over 
 again, since her marriage, she had been temped 
 to tell him everything about that dreadful night 
 at the Villa Floralia : she had wanted to tell him, 
 and yet she had hesitated. 
 
 For a long time they were silent. The rest- 
 less waters in the broad channel underneath 
 made a mysterious sighing sound. The air was 
 very still. A great calm lay on the fertile val- 
 leys and lonely mountain tops. 
 
 Isola drew closer. She was taking her 
 courage in both hands. He trusted her so 
 utterly. 
 
 "Robby." She looked up at him wistfully. 
 The grasp of the brown fingers grew more in- 
 sistent. "Robby I want to tell you some- 
 thing. You won't like it, but I think I 
 
 must " She felt his heart give a sudden 
 
 bound. Her face flushed painfully. She hur- 
 ried on: "That night, at the fete he kissed 
 my arm more than once " 
 
 There was silence. She hardly dared to 
 breathe. Robin's face grew very white. He 
 looked down at her. In his eyes there was 
 violence. 
 
 "I know ; Auntie told me. Of course, I would 
 have seen to it, but she insisted that I must keep
 
 WHAT IS LOVE ? 303 
 
 quiet. She said it would be harder for him to 
 find himself kicked out of society than to take 
 chances in front of a pistol." 
 
 He spoke abruptly. His voice was harsh be- 
 cause of inward emotion. Isola laid her head 
 against his arm. 
 
 "You don't mind very much?" 
 
 "Of course I mind. It hurts like sin. I'd 
 give five years of my life for a chance of punch- 
 ing the brute's head, but Auntie made me prom- 
 ise. She said she knew how to deal with him 
 and I expect she does, only it ought to have been 
 my affair, for you're my wife." 
 
 She rubbed her head against his arm. 
 
 "You aren't angry with me? It won't make 
 any difference?" 
 
 "Difference!" They were quite alone. Not 
 a single servant in the whole establishment 
 would have ventured to play the spy. The 
 gardeners and "helps" were preparing for the 
 great feast that was to come off, that evening, 
 in the servant's hall. Twilight shadows were 
 falling. They were alone. Robin folded his 
 wife to his breast. His strong young arms held 
 her hungrily, as though they could never have 
 enough of that soft, yielding flesh. He bent his 
 head and kissed her softly on her eyes her 
 flushed cheeks her exquisite mouth. 
 
 " 'Difference'? Between you and me? Are
 
 304 WHAT IS LOVE ? 
 
 you mad or are you trying to tease me? What 
 could make any 'difference' between us two 
 ever? Don't we love each other? Aren't we 
 going to live for each other? Aren't we friends 
 and lovers and husband and wife ? Aren't we 
 everything that could make two people one?" 
 
 The glory of love shining in his eyes almost 
 frightened her. It was so steady, so over- 
 whelmingly sure of itself. His face was pressed 
 against hers. She turned her head softly and 
 kissed him. 
 
 "Robby I love you !" she whispered. His 
 strong young body quivered as he strained her 
 to his heart. 
 
 "I know you do. I always knew you did 
 only you didn't know it. Wasn't I right ? Isn't 
 Love the Soul of Life the Soul of our lives?" 
 
 From her lips there came no answer, but her 
 heart spoke in throbs to its restless mate. 
 
 The silence that followed was broken only by 
 the whisper of falling rose-petals and the cease- 
 less murmur of the sea. 
 
 THE END
 
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