women admire but they do not love. I sometimes think they are not big enough to understand great things. All his life Coningsby's lived and suffered without the love of women. Now he must die as he has lived."
Olga put her hands up to her eyes.
"Oh, I can't stand it," she sobbed brokenly. "You make me feel as though I were killing him."
"No," he said tenderly, "you are not killing him. You could not save him if you would. But you could prevent his dying that way!"
"What do you wish me to do?"
"Go to Coningsby."
"If I did," she faltered, "he would think I loved him."
"Yes," said he, "he would think you loved him and in that thought he would be wonderfully happy."
"But I do not love him."
"No, but you can act. I have seldom seen a better emotional actress. Now you have an opportunity to play your greatest rôle. Again you have an opportunity to play 'The Better Self,' only this time you must write your own part before you play it. Coningsby cannot live and will never know … Will you go to him?"
She rose to her feet and her eyes shown with a strange brilliancy. "I will go to him," she said softly. "I could almost love you for what you have done tonight."
While she went to get her wraps, Jerold Wharton waited for her upon the balcony. He lighted a cigar
