He had read to her, waited upon her, served her with the utmost
chivalry and devotion. He had made of her a Madonna, a goddess, she who
was fair game for all other men in Barcelona.
Emile's voice broke in upon her meditations.
"You shouldn't worry, Fatalite. It's not becoming. Have a cigarette to
make yourself a little distraction."
She shook her head.
"No, thank you, Emile. I never wanted to smoke, and any way it would not
give me a distraction to-night."
"Then what are you worrying about?"
"I've only been wondering what will be the end of me."
"What has made you suddenly become so anxious about your end?" Emile
looked at her keenly.
The wide eyes raised to his were tragedy incarnate. The long nervous
fingers were tightly locked together.
"I'm a coward to-night," the soft hoarse voice went on. "I've never
grumbled before, have I, Emile? I seem to have suddenly realised how
hopeless everything looks for me in the future. I've had time enough to
think it all out since I've been lying in bed. When I first came here I
thought I was going to do all sorts of wonderful things, but now I see
that this life leads to nothing, and I may go on being just a circus
rider for years.
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