There came to her a sense of having been robbed of what
was hers by primitive eternal law. Greyson had been right. She did love
power--power to serve and shape the world. She would have earned it and
used it well. She could have helped him, inspired him. They would have
worked together: he the force and she the guidance. She would have
supplied the things he lacked. It was to her he came for counsel, as it
was. But for her he would never have taken the first step. What right
had this poor brainless lump of painted flesh to share his wounds, his
triumphs? What help could she give him when the time should come that he
should need it?
Suddenly he broke off. "What a fool I'm making of myself," he said. "I
always was a dreamer."
She forced a laugh. "Why shouldn't it come true?" she asked.
They had the little garden to themselves. The million lights of Paris
shone below them.
"Because you won't be there," he answered, "and without you I can't do
it. You think I'm always like I am to-night, bragging, confident. So I
am when you are with me.
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