“The only difficulty was that I was so often ill and unable to play. Sometimes, if the manager was out of temper, he would insist on my coming into the ring when I had these attacks on; and I believe the people liked those evenings best. Once, I remember, I fainted right off with the pain in the middle of the performance---- When I came to my senses again, the audience had got round me--hooting and yelling and pelting me with------” “Don't! I can't hear any more! Stop, for God's sake!” She was standing up with both hands over her ears. He broke off, and, looking up, saw the glitter of tears in her eyes. “Damn it all, what an idiot I am!” he said under his breath. She crossed the room and stood for a little while looking out of the window. When she turned round, the Gadfly was again leaning on the table and covering his eyes with one hand. He had evidently forgotten her presence, and she sat down beside him without speaking. After a long silence she said slowly: “I want to ask you a question.” “Yes?” without moving. “Why did you not cut your throat?” He looked up in grave surprise. “I did not expect YOU to ask that,” he said. “And what about my work? Who would have done it for me?” “Your work---- Ah, I see! You talked just now about being a coward; well, if you have come through that and kept to your purpose, you are the very bravest man that I have ever met.” He covered his eyes again, and held her hand in a close passionate clasp. A silence that seemed to have no end fell around them. Suddenly a clear and fresh soprano voice rang out from the garden below, singing a verse of a doggerel French song: “Eh, Pierrot! Danse, Pierrot! Danse un peu, mon pauvre Jeannot! Vive la danse et l'allegresse! Jouissons de notre bell' jeunesse! Si moi je pleure ou moi je soupire, Si moi je fais la triste figure-- Monsieur, ce n'est que pour rire! Ha! Ha, ha, ha! Monsieur, ce n'est que pour rire!” At the first words the Gadfly tore his hand from Gemma's and shrank away with a stifled groan. She clasped both hands round his arm and pressed it firmly, as she might have pressed that of a person undergoing a surgical operation. When the song broke off and a chorus of laughter and applause came from the garden, he looked up with the eyes of a tortured animal. “Yes, it is Zita,” he said slowly; “with her officer friends. She tried to come in here the other night, before Riccardo came. I should have gone mad if she had touched me!” “But she does not know,” Gemma protested softly. “She cannot guess that she is hurting you.” “She is like a Creole,” he answered, shuddering. “Do you remember her face that night when we brought in the beggar-child? That is how the half-castes look when they laugh.”