There was a wholesome innocence in these strangely arranged stolen interviews.
Clayton often searched that lovely face to read what malign influence kept her from opening her whole life to him.
But it all seemed so clear.

Her wild artist nature yearned for the honors of a world's applause; it was agreed between them that, be it opera season or concert tour, that, once success was achieved, the eclipse of Love should hide her from the eager moths who flutter around the risen star.
"She trusts me; I have not told her all.

When I can give her my whole life and a fortune," thought Clayton, "then I shall say, 'Irma, open the sealed books.

There must be nothing hidden between us.'" With a serene confidence in Madame Raffoni, Randall Clayton always came home alone and by circuitous routes, artfully varied, from these strange trysts.
This stolen time seemed all too short to speak of their future, gilded by a love which thrived strangely in the difficulties besetting the strangely-met couple.
Clayton's mind was unclouded by suspicion.

He had given his whole destiny over to the keeping of the small blue-veined hands, which lingered so lovingly on his heated brow.