so well that I shall be unfaithful to Guy, and I know, too, what is worse than anything, that I shall always, whatever I do, feel unfaithful to him, and that you must admit, seems just a little more than one can comfortably endure!"
And Heinrich consoled, manipulating his handkerchief with the greatest possible skill: "But Lina, this young Englishman—what can he possibly know of you and of your great genius?"
"He neither knows—nor cares—anything about my genius at all. Can't you really understand that it's possible to love me as a woman without remembering all the time that I'm a dancer?"
And this, of course, Heinrich was quite unable to do, although he continued to dry her eyes and utter those soothing sounds at which he was by this time so adept.
And when, after ten minutes or so, she raised her head and began to ask him—very faintly—further financial details of the Spanish tour, he realized, with a sense of acute satisfaction, that this most melancholy afternoon had not been entirely misspent. And soon Marie came in, with coffee, and lighted the candles and embraced her mistress many times, and then Lina smiled, and Heinrich kissed her hand, and tiptoed ostentatiously from the room, and it seemed as though another chapter of Varsovina's life was finished and forgotten, and done with for ever.