Down she sank upon the bed, to give way to
an attack of hysterics.
We are constantly finding ourselves putting forth the
lovely flowers and fruit of the virtues whereof the heroes
and heroines of romance are so prolific. Usually nothing
occurs to disillusion us about ourselves. But now
and then fate, in unusually brutal ironic mood, forces
us to see the real reason why we did this or that virtuous,
self-sacrificing action, or blossomed forth in this
or that nobility of character. Mildred was destined
now to suffer one of these savage blows of disillusionment
about self that thrust us down from the exalted
moral heights where we have been preening into humble
kinship with the weak and frail human race. She
saw why she had refused Stanley, why she had stopped
``borrowing,'' why she had put off going to the theatrical
managers, why she had delayed moving into quarters
within her diminished and rapidly diminishing
means. She had been counting on Donald Keith. She
had convinced herself that he loved her even as she loved
him.
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