"Maybe they've had to give each other up," she concluded,
enigmatically.
"People who will give each other up should be obliged to do it," he
returned. "May I leave my violin here? I'll be coming again so soon."
"Surely. I hope you will."
"Good-night." He took her hand for a moment, in his warm, steady clasp,
and subtly, Rose answered to the man--not the violin. She was deathly
white when the door closed, and she trembled all the way up-stairs.
When she saw herself in the mirror, she was startled, for, in her
ghostly pallor, her deep eyes burned like stars. She knew, now. The
woman who had so hungered for Life had suddenly come face to face with
its utmost wonder; its highest gift of joy--or pain.
The heart of a man is divided into many compartments, mostly isolated.
Sometimes there is a door between two of them, or even three may be
joined, but usually, each one is complete in itself. Within the
different chambers his soul sojourns as it will, since immeasurably
beyond woman, he possesses the power of detachment, of intermittence.
Once in a lifetime, possibly, under the influence of some sweeping
passion, all the doors are flung wide and the one beloved woman may
enter in.
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