"You showed your wisdom," said Webster, a little grimly. "I know that; what is the use of grieving and fretting and losing one's good looks for the sake of a person who has ceased to care for one? Love is never rekindled, you know; its ashes never again take fire." "Do you speak from experience?" "Yes," answered Kathleen Weir, sharply. "I've watched the flame die out, and the last flicker expire. It's an unpleasant experience, when the ice has not already touched your own heart." "I could never imagine it happening to you." "You say that because I am an actress; a woman used to, and who loves flattery, you are thinking. But it did happen to me, Mr. Webster! Perhaps it was my temper, perhaps it was his, but my gentleman turned cold and disagreeable--and in the end we parted." Ralph Webster felt slightly embarrassed. "And, now," went on Miss Weir, throwing back her well-shaped head, crowned with its thick chestnut hair, "he is no more to me than last year's snow! He changed first, but I afterward. But why need I bore you with all this? Perhaps you do know that I am a married woman parted from my husband?" "I certainly did not know it." "Yes, nine years ago I married a young man called Temple--" "Temple?" interrupted Webster, quickly. "Yes, John Temple; he was then a very young man, studying for the bar, but he never practiced, for he had some money, and he had no ambition. I think he thought I had spoiled his life." A physical pain seemed to thrill through Webster's heart, and he bit his lips to hide his emotion. "And," he said, after a moment's pause, "do you never see him? What is he like?" "I have not seen him for these six years, but I know he is still in the land of the living, and that I am not entitled to a widow's cap, for each six months his lawyer regularly sends me one hundred and fifty pounds. He allows me, in fact, three hundred a year, and perfect liberty. I do whatever I like." And Kathleen Weir laughed a little bitterly. "And you chose the stage?" said Ralph Webster, in a low tone. "I was on the stage when he had what I suppose he calls the misfortune to marry me. He was a young fellow--barely twenty-one--and I was three years older. We lived together for about three years, principally abroad, and then he tired of it. That is, he had been tiring of it all the time; we did not pull together somehow." Ralph Webster drew a long breath. "What is he like, I may have seen him?" he asked. "Like? Good-looking, with gray eyes and a very taking manner when he chose. But to me he was often eminently disagreeable." "And you do not know where he is now?" "Not in the very least; abroad most likely, for the sunny south suited his pleasure-loving nature best. He had no energy, and I hate men without it. Men are born to fight in the battle of life, but John Temple stood smiling at it; he will never succeed in anything, and I love success." "And you have achieved it."