"Thus," replied the prize-fighter. “You must come and see me some afternoon,” she said to him. Celeste he knew. It was as much accident as anything, but she had killed him. She is a fortune-teller and a vessel for man’s pleasure. "Open my heart, Father of Mercy!" she murmured, in a humble tone, and with downcast looks, "and make me sensible of the error of my ways. ‘You’re only making things worse, you little idiot. What was it in her heart or mind or soul that went out to this man? Music—was that it? Was he powerless to stir her without the gift? But hadn't he fascinated her by his talk, gentle and winning? Ah, but that had been after he had played for her. She dismissed the whole subject with a little shrug of the shoulders. “Why—it’s—it’s you!” Amazement seemed to dry up the torrents of his speech. ‘Couldn’t even trouble to make a pretence of motherhood. . ” “Do you think so? I find my interest in that sort of thing decline and decline.
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