He wrote pleading notes to her, in boyish phraseology, and she laughed
over these with the tenor. He made the breaking off the more painful by
going nightly to see her dance that fatal melody. He watched her from afar
upon the street, and almost invariably saw the tenor by her side. He drank
continually, and he begged Ted Clarke to tell her, in a casual way, that
he was going to the dogs on account of her treatment of him. Whereupon she
laughed and then looked scornful, saying: "If he's fool enough to drink
himself to death because a woman didn't happen to fall in love with him,
the sooner he finishes the work the better. I have no use for such a man."
No one has, and I told Billy so. But he kept up his pace toward the goal of
confirmed drunkenness. He ceased his attendance at the theatre where she
danced, only after he learned that the tenor had married her. But that
dance of hers had become a part of his life. Its accompanying tune was
now as necessary to his aural sensibilities as food to his stomach. He
therefore spent his evenings going to theatres and concert-halls where "La
Gitana" was likely to be sung or played.
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