husband.' That 's the moral of runaway matches. Go on."
"And then he took ill, and I did n't see him for nearly a month, and I missed him so much—"
"That you thought you were in love with him. I understand. That 's the usual thing. He was probably pretending that he was sick, just to see whether you had 'got the habit' or not. He played you like a fish—tautened the line—and when he was sure that he had you well hooked—eh?—he said: 'Now you must leave the stage. I 'll feel safer when I have you in my own little creel.' You were a gull."
"No." She pushed back her plate and put her elbows on the table, her hands clasped under her chin. "No. He did n't say a word about leaving the stage. I did that myself."
"You did. Well, well. No wonder you 're proud of it." He took out his cigar-case; she watched him, reminiscently, the light of his match reflected in her set eyes. "Perhaps," he said, "you will explain why?"
She blinked quickly. "Yes," she replied, "I 'll explain why.… I was out at a studio—a painter's—and he had a pet monkey that imitated everything it had seen him do. It sat at his easel and daubed his canvas—and put its head on one side and then on the other—and when we all clapped our hands and cried: 'What a perfect little actor!' it chattered and made mouths—" She imitated its grotesque baring of the teeth. "And I said to myself: 'There I am.
