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"But, Lina, you will make yourself ill!"

"111! I never feit better in my life."

"You do not look it," Rosing pronounced. "You are pale as wax, and you have grown thinner."

"I teil you I never feit better in all my life."

Once again he experienced all the bewilderment of a Frankenstein. He shook his head and said helplessly:

"I can not argue with you. I am so tired!"

"Tired? But why didn't you teil me? You mustn't come down to the theater to-night. You mustn't think of it. And please will you rest now?"

"On the condition that you rest, too."

"I?" She shook her head. "I am going down early, to exercise at the bar."

"Then I shall go also," declared Rosing with the senseless obstinacy of exhaustion.

Lina, who had been combing her hair, now turned around the better to scrutinize him. His face looked gray and withered, his eyes sunken. She got up from her chair, went across to where he was sitting and knelt down beside him.

"Listen," she said coaxingly, "you will make me very unhappy if you refuse to take care of yourself. And you know that one can't do one's best if one is unhappy . . . it's different for me, this traveling—I'm young and strong, and I enjoy it. But if you insist on making yourself ill, I shall worry about you all the time, and that will be bad for both of us. Please try to sleep now, and then later, when you awake, come down to the theater if you still want to. Won't you do that?"

Her voice was caressing, but in the clear darkness of her eyes he could detect no softness, only that luminous steady look which he had learned to associate with intense preoccupation. Already her mind was busy evolving the problems of the evening, and although she talked to him

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