Sybil was living in a sort of trance. Stewart Thrall had become her only law. This great success she accepted as a direct gift from him. She had been so helplessly poor, friendless! He, only, had discovered some talent in her, and she had been at first ashamed because she was dependent upon him for all the means of making anything of herself until--until, oh, pride! oh, joy! wonderful! inexplicable! he loved her! Then all was changed. She could go to him in every difficulty--she could accept help, instruction, everything, without thought of shame. Before, she had simply regarded him as the master of a beautiful art, as a stern and exacting teacher, whose approval was hard to win--until love came to glorify and lift her up to the high throne of his heart. And so absolute, so unquestioning was her faith and pride and trust, that she had as yet no thought at all of shame or of wrong done, but breathed the incense of public worship and read and re-read her printed praises, and saw the turning heads in the street, the nudging elbows, heard the swift whisper: "There she is--there's Sybil Lawton!" and all day long dreamed of that moment on the balcony when they two were as alone as though they stood upon an island and the applause was surf thundering an accompaniment to his passion-choked words. It was a double intoxication--that of both mind and heart. For a little space her life was pure joy, without one clouding thought of--_after_; without conscious knowledge of the envy and calumny, the conflict and detraction going on about her. Occasionally she heard allusions to the "Missus," as when some one would "wonder how the Missus would like this or that," and once or twice she had intended to ask Jane Stivers whether it was a nickname or just a slang term. But what did it matter--what did anything matter?--save to win the approbation of Stewart Thrall, and consequently the public. And Thrall, spoiled by the world, looking back along the twenty arid years between them, saw dead passions cast aside like so many outworn gloves; knew the price of every illegitimate whim, and had seen his own danger. Yet instead of flying from it he had trusted to the strange new desire he felt to help, to guard, to advance the interests of another, and now he found himself dominated by a great passion, such a one as none who knew him gave him credit for. Jim Roberts writhed miserably, crying: "She thinks he loves her! Great God! See her worshipping eyes! But it's not love with him--it's the joy of the pursuit; damn him! Why, oh, why do good women always love such men? Even if I were a man instead of a miserable wreck, just trembling to the fall--my reverent worship, my humble, waiting, devoted love would stand no chance against him or one like him! But why?" Poor Jim did not know that it is the bold man, who, not restrained by deep respect, pushes past the reverent waiting one, and speaking first, is first loved; and worthiness all unconsidered!