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for ever. The sweet freedom of their life together in the forest had vanished inevitably, so that no magie, however dark, could ever recapture those first radiant and carefree moments. They had been young, passionately, divinely, young, for two short months; now that those months had fled, something else, far more important, had vanished with them—the very essence of their romance itself, and that had blown so far away that neither, she thought, would ever be fleet enough to find and seize it for their own again.

Ahead of her, like some long and dreary vista, there stretched a chain of lonely years, during which period of time she would naturally pirouette as Varsovina upon all the stages of all the world, and she supposed that sooner or later she would give herself to men again, if they in their turn gave her money enough, or jewels enough, to make these lifeless intrigues worth while to so famous a ballerina. After all, did it matter to any one save herself whether or not she took other lovers? It had never mattered very much before and she supposed, somehow, that affairs would sooner or later adjust themselves directly she began to dance again. Nothing so innocent and yet so passionate as her love for Guy, she thought once more, could ever last for very long, and Guy himself would shortly marry, and beget children, and think of Fontainebleau only as a deliciously romantic, and rather wicked memory, of his dashing youth.

And, thinking in this manner, she not unnaturally began to cry once more, and when Heinrich, who was by this time childishly delighted with his own tact, lent her a handkerchief, beseeching her to teil him what exactly was the matter, she clung to the lapels of his coat, and sobbed, and permitted her eyes to be dried, and told him at last, in a voice broken by emotion:

"It's only that I can't forgive myself because I know