She could hardly speak to me; she insisted relentlessly upon a separation. The windows of these rooms were obscured with draperies, their floors a carpet patchwork; the china ornaments on their mantels were of a class apart. In a little while—to-morrow—all these tender, beautiful emotions will pass away, and I'll become what I was yesterday, a cynical, miserly old spinster. I understand. “You ARE a female thing at bottom,” he admitted. On the way, he hired a chair with a couple of stout porters, and ordered them to follow him. Where was the harm in letting her go? She could not get far. She reminded him sometimes of the one holy and ineffable Madonna, at others of Berode, the great courtezan of her day, who had sent kings away from her doors, and had just announced her intention of ending her life in a convent.
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