This was the
picture lovingly painted and constantly retouched by Rita's mother.
Now it had vanished. The background was gone, and only the man
remained; the strong, reserved man whose deep voice had spoken so
gently, whose devotion was so true and unselfish that he only sought
to shield and protect her from follies the nature of which he did not
even seek to learn. She was stripped of her vanity, and felt loathsome
and unworthy of such a love.
"Oh," she moaned, rocking to and fro. "I hate myself--I hate myself!"
Now that the victory so long desired seemed at last about to be won,
she hesitated to grasp the prize. One solacing reflection she had. She
would put the errors of the past behind her. Many times of late she
had found herself longing to be done with the feverish life of the
stage. Envied by those who had been her companions in the old chorus
days, and any one of whom would have counted ambition crowned could
she have played The Maid of the Masque, Rita thought otherwise. The
ducal mansions and rose-bowered Riviera hotels through which she moved
nightly had no charm for her; she sighed for reality, and had wearied
long ago of the canvas palaces and the artificial Southern moonlight.
In fact, stage life had never truly appealed to her--save as a means
to an end.
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