however far, however deep down, and then we'll start again."
"You know what this means, Elizabeth?" he faltered. "That man Power—"
She brushed the thought away.
"I know. He'll close the theatre. He'll do all he can to harm us. That doesn't matter. The play is ours. That's worth a fortune. And the new one coming—why, it's wonderful, Philip. We don't want wealth. Your brain and my art can win us all that we desire in life. We shall have something sweeter than anything which Sylvanus Power's millions could buy. We shall have our love—your love for me, dear, and mine for you."
He felt her tears upon his cheek, her lips pressed to his. He held her there, but although his heart was beating with renewed hope, he said nothing for a time. When she stepped back to look at his face, however, the change was already there.
"You are glad, Philip!" she cried. "You are happy—I can see it! You didn't ever care really for that girl, did you?"
He almost laughed.
"Not like this!" he answered confidently. "I never even for a single moment pretended to care in a great way. We were just companions in misfortune. The madness that came over me that day had been growing in my brain for years. I hated Douglas Romilly. I had every reason to hate him. And then, after all he had robbed me of—my one companion—"
She stopped him.
"I know—I know," she murmured. "You need
