"And you--you are the embodiment of spring." Then, in a low voice, close to her ear, he added: "I love you! I love you! How beautiful you are!" "Hush!" She lifted a finger in a gesture of warning. "You must not say such things to me--here." With the addition of that final word her face grew arch. Then in a louder tone: "I was right, was I not, to send you away?" "I am a new being," he answered, "morally and physically. But tell me, what is the meaning of these notices? Have you put _The Morning_ on in place of _Alessandra_?" Hugh interposed. "That's what she's done," and offered his hand with unexpected cordiality. "You take my breath away," said Douglass. "I can't follow your reckless campaigns." "We'll explain. We're not as reckless as we seem." They began to move towards the street, Hugh leading the way with the playwright's bag. Helen laughed at her lover's perplexity and dismay. "You look befoozled." "I am. I can't understand. After all that work and expense--after all my toilsome grind--my sacrifice of principles." She was close to his shoulder as she said, looking up at him with beaming, tender eyes: "That's just it. I couldn't accept your offering. After _The Morning_ came in, my soul revolted. I ordered the _Alessandra_ manuscript brought in. Do you know what I did with it?" "Rewrote it, I hope." Her face expressed daring, humor, triumph, but the hand lifted to the chin expressed a little apprehension as she replied: "Rewrote it? No, I didn't think of that. _I burned it._" He stopped, unconscious of the streaming crowds. "Burned it! I can't believe you. My greatest work--" "It is gone." The smile died out of her eyes, her face became very grave and very sweet. "I couldn't bear to have you bow your head to please a public not worthy of you. The play was un-American, and should not have been written by you." He was dazed by the enormous consequences of this action, and his mind flashed from point to point before he answered, in a single word: "Westervelt." Thereat they both laughed, and she explained. "It was dreadful. He raged, he shook the whole block as he trotted to and fro tearing his hair. I think he wished to tear my hair. He really resembled the elder Salvini as Othello--you know the scene I mean. I gave him a check to compensate him. He tore it up and blew it into the air with a curse. Oh, it was beautiful comedy. I told him our interview would make a hit as a 'turn' on the vaudeville stage. Nothing could calm him. I was firm, and _Alessandra_ was in ashes."