Does it?” “I think it does. She went to a dramatic agent, and he turned out to be the one who had heard me sing in Paris. Mirages, over which he was constantly throwing bridges which were wasted efforts, since invariably they spanned solid ground. “Where to?” he asked, as the hansom drove up. She was never able to trace the changes her attitude had undergone, from the time when she believed herself to be the pampered Queen of Fortune, the crown of a good man’s love (and secretly, but nobly, worshipping some one else), to the time when she realized she was in fact just a mannequin for her lover’s imagination, and that he cared no more for the realities of her being, for the things she felt and desired, for the passions and dreams that might move her, than a child cares for the sawdust in its doll. Sheila found out.
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