صفحة 190 من 490

He flung himself down on the sofa and turned away his face. "You

have killed my love," he muttered.

She looked at him in wonder and laughed. He made no answer. She

came across to him, and with her little fingers stroked his hair.

She knelt down and pressed his hands to her lips. He drew them

away, and a shudder ran through him.

Then he leaped up and went to the door. "Yes," he cried, "you

have killed my love. You used to stir my imagination. Now you

don't even stir my curiosity. You simply produce no effect. I

loved you because you were marvellous, because you had genius and

intellect, because you realized the dreams of great poets and

gave shape and substance to the shadows of art. You have thrown

it all away. You are shallow and stupid. My God! how mad I was to

love you! What a fool I have been! You are nothing to me now. I

will never see you again. I will never think of you. I will never

mention your name. You don't know what you were to me, once. Why,

once ... Oh, I can't bear to think of it! I wish I had never laid

eyes upon you! You have spoiled the romance of my life. How

little you can know of love, if you say it mars your art! Without

your art, you are nothing. I would have made you famous,

splendid, magnificent. The world would have worshipped you, and

you would have borne my name. What are you now?