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strange marriage more satisfactory. The blaze of limelight thrust so relentlessly upon both had only combined to make them more dependent on each other. If they were dazed, they were dazed together. She wondered often what she would have done without him, while he frequently reflected, with the keenest relish, that by marrying her he had made her his, and that never, while he lived, could she escape him.

She might conceivably have escaped, had she been free, for the excellent reason that people were always awaiting an opportunity of inviting her to do so. The beautiful young gentlemen of Naples sat nightly at the theater, classical profiles turned eagerly upward toward the stage, gloved fingers clutching at the delicate flowers they invariably showered upon her at the end of the act. There were notes, too: "Would Mademoiselle Varsovina honor the Conté de Cerami with her presence at supper after the ballet?" Mademoiselle Varsovina would be delighted, providing she might also accept for her husband, Monsieur Rosing; Mademoiselle Varsovina never attended supper-parties without the escort of Monsieur.

And yet, despite this exemplary behavior, Rosing knew moments of panic.

"Lina, are you sure you are not attracted by any of these young balletomanes who besiege you with notes and bouquets?"

"But of course I'm not! You're not going to become jealous of me, I hope?"

"That," Rosing announced in a somber voice, "I shall always be—impossible to escape it."

"At least admit that I give you no cause?"

"But of course you don't, my angel! Only your temptations sometimes alarm me."

For the swarthy and elegant young gentlemen who besieged her with such persistence indeed appeared to

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