"No," said Lady Mildred, sadly, and with changed voice, "such things are no longer possible. Formerly, men despised death because it was certain to come, in a few years at best; and why not, therefore, to-morrow? But we cannot brave death any more. We live, each for himself. That is the only safety; there is only the law of self-preservation. All are alike; we cannot love each other any more, because we are all alike. No woman is better than another in any man's eyes, because we are all dressed the same, and we are all the same. What more do we want?" she said, harshly. "There is no change for us; we go from bed to work, from work to rest and food, and so to bed again. What more can we want? We are all equals; we are all the same; there are no more gentlewomen. Let us put on our gray frocks and our flat caps again, and hide our hair and go home to bed." "Yes, yes," cried Christine, "but you will come again. You will come again, and we will make every night a Play and Pretence of the beautiful--the lovely Past. When we lay aside the gray frocks, and let down our hair, we shall go back to the old time--the dear old time." The young man named Jack remained behind when the others were gone. "If it were possible," he said, "for a man to give up everything--even his life--for a woman, in the old times, when life was a rich and glorious possession--how much more ought he not to be willing to lay it down, now that it has been made a worthless weed?" "I have never felt so happy"--the girl was thinking of something else. "I have never dreamed that I could feel so happy. Now I know what I have always longed for--to dance round and round forever, forgetting all but the joy of the music and the dance. But oh, Jack"--her face turned pale again--"how could they ever have been happy, even while they waltzed, knowing that every minute brought them nearer and nearer to the dreadful end?" "I don't know. Christine, if I were you, I would never mention that ugly topic again, except when we are not dressed up and acting. How lovely they looked--all of them--but none of them to compare with the sweetest rose-bud of the garden?" He took her hand and kissed it, and then left her alone with the old man in the great Museum. CHAPTER IV. WHAT IS LOVE?