dawn break through the terrible billows of gloom, and in the glorious light stood a woman who had made herself. Spotless as the driven snow, she had risen from the very dregs of the city. And then I saw her sink down again, back into the depths from whence she had sprung in order that she might cover up her brother's crime. You can't overcome Destiny, but you can change it. Since that day I have never beheld a wretched woman in the streets but what I have thought of 'The Better Self.' Plays like that are like oases in the desert. They don't poison or corrupt; they just give life and make us understand."
Somewhere among the palms in the ballroom beyond them, a violinist was playing Moskovitz's "Serenata." Softly, sweetly, grandly, the music floated to their ears as though it were the echo of a dream. Now loud, now soft and calm, it fell upon the night, and somehow to the two upon the balcony it seemed sadly beautiful.
"Music," she whispered, "is the connecting link between earth and Paradise."
"Yes," he murmured, "and the 'Serenata' is a link of purest gold. But somehow, when I hear it played, it always makes me conscious of a great void in my life. So, also, does it affect Coningsby."
As he spoke, Olga looked up quickly into his eyes.
"And how is Arthur?" she asked abruptly. "Tonight, I had forgotten him entirely."
"Some women are born to forget," said he, and in his voice there was just barely perceptible the faintest suggestion of cynicism.
