Winston watched her earnestly as she spoke, his gray eyes brightening
with unconscious appreciation, his face gradually losing its harshness
of disapproval. A spirit of independence always made quick appeal to
his favor, and this girl's outspoken defiance of his good opinion set
his heart throbbing. Back of her outward quietness of demeanor there
was an untamed spirit flashing into life.
"We may never exactly agree as to this question of proprieties," he
acknowledged slowly. "Yet I can partially comprehend your position as
viewed professionally. Am I, then, to understand that your future is
definitely decided upon? You really purpose dedicating your life to
dramatic art?"
She hesitated, her quickly lowered eyes betraying a moment of
embarrassment.
"Yes," she answered finally. "I am beginning to find myself, to
believe in myself."
"You expect to find complete satisfaction in this way?"
"Complete? Oh, no; one never does that, you know, unless, possibly,
the ideals are very low; but more than I can hope to find elsewhere.
Even now I am certainly happier in the work than I have been for
years." She looked up at him quickly, her eyes pleading. "It is not
the glitter, the sham, the applause," she hastened to explain, "but the
real work itself, that attracts and rewards me--the hidden labor of
fitly interpreting character--the hard, secret study after details.
This has become a positive passion, an inspiration. I may never become
the perfected artist of which I sometimes dream, yet it must be that I
have within me a glimmering of that art. I feel it, and cannot remain
false to it."
"Possibly love may enter to change your plans," he ventured to suggest,
influenced by the constantly changing expression of her face.
She flushed to the roots of her hair, yet her lips laughed lightly.
"I imagine such an unexpected occurrence would merely serve to
strengthen them," she replied quickly. "I cannot conceive of any love
so supremely selfish as to retard the development of a worthy ideal.
But really, there is small need yet of discussing such a possibility."
She stood aside as he made a movement toward the open door, yet, when
he had stepped forth into the hall, she halted him with a sudden
question: "Do you intend returning at once to Denver?"
"No, I shall remain here."
She said nothing, but he clearly read a farther unasked question in her
face.
"I remain here, Miss Norvell, while you do. I shall be among your
audiences at the Gayety. I do not altogether agree that your choice
has been a correct one, but I do sincerely believe in you,--in your
motives,--and, whether you desire it or not, I propose to constitute
myself your special guardian. There is likely to be trouble at the
Gayety, if any drunken fool becomes too gay."