n'tbear
it
,
"
she
said
nervously
,
"
if
you
do
n't
remember
me
.
I
'll
go
away
.
"
And
she
turned
her
head
quickly
to
the
gates
where
there
stood
the
thick
dark
shape
of
a
taxi
which
I
had
somehow
not
seen
before
,
else
I
would
have
known
for
certain
that
she
was
not
a
fairy
,
a
Lilith
fairy
,
but
just
a
woman
;
a
nice
woman
who
takes
life
at
a
venture
,
I
decided
,
and
said
abruptly
:
"
Do
n't
go
.
"
When
we
were
upstairs
in
my
sitting-room
and
I
could
see
her
by
the
light
of
eight
candles
,
I
remembered
her
perfectly
well
,
though
I
had
only
seen
her
once
before
.
We
had
met
at
some
tiresome
bridge
party
six
months
before
,
but
just
incidentally
,
and
without
enough
interest
on
either
side
to
carry
the
conversation
beyond
the
tepid
limits
of
our
surroundings
.
And
as
I
had
never
once
thought
of
her
since
I
had
shaken
myself
free
of
them
,
I
could
n't
imagine
how
on
earth
she
had
known
my
address
or
even
remembered
my
name
,
which
she
did
n't
dare
try
to
pronounce
,
she
had
told
me
as
we
went
up
the
stairs
.
She
said
that
she
,
too
,
had
never
thought
about
me
at
all
since
then
,
"
until
to-night
when
I
was
playing
bridge
in
the
same
room
with
the
same
people
,
except
that
you
were
not
there
—
and
I
remembered
you
only
suddenly
,
as
something
missing
from
the
room
.
I
did
n't
remember
you
because
of
anything
you
said
,
but
because
you
had
been
the
worst
bridge
player
in
the
room
,
and
had
the
most
unscrupulous
brown
eyes
that
ever
advised
a
flapper
to
inhale
her
cigarette
smoke
,
as
it
was
no
use
her
smoking
if
she
did
n't
.
And
thinking
about
you
among
those
people
who
seemed
more
dreary
than
ever
to-night
,
I
had
a
silly
homesick
feeling
about
you
as
though
we
were
comrades
in
distress
,
whereas
I
did
n't
even
know
your
name
properly
and
never
shall
if
you
do
n't
somehow
make
it
a
presentable
one
.
"
So
I
turned
the
conversation
to
Armenians
in
general
,
which
is
an
easy
thing
to
do
,
because
you
have
only
to
murmur
the
word
'
massacre
'
and
the
connection
is
obvious
,
is
n't
it
?
Of
course
that
sent
that
dear
old
snob
,
Mrs.
—
—
,
off
like
mad
,
saying
what
bad
luck
it
was
for
you
being
an
Armenian
,
because
you
could
so
nicely
have
been
anything
else
,
and
even
a
Montenegrin
would
have
been
a
better
thing
to
be
;
how
surprised
she
had
been
when
she
met
you
,
she
told
us
,
for
she
had
always
had
a
vague
idea
that
Armenians
were
funny
little
old
men
with
long
hooked
noses
and
greasy
black
hair
,
who
hawked
carpets
about
on
their
backs
,
and
invariably
cheated
people
,
even
Jews
and
Greeks
...
.
"
But
you
are
quite
English
and
civilised
really
,
are
n't
you
?
I
mean
you
do
n't
think
that
,
just
because
I
managed
to
wrangle
out
your
address
and
came
here
on
impulse
,
I
want
to
stay
with
you
or
anything
like
that
,
do
you
?
"
As
she
said
that
,
I
suddenly
thought
of
Lord
Dusiote
's
gallant
villainy
in
Meredith
's
poem
,
and
I
told
her
quickly
how
a
whole
Court
had
been
lovesick
for
a
young
princess
,
but
Lord
Dusiote
had
laughed
,
heart-free
,
and
said
:
"
I
prize
her
no
more
than
a
fling
of
the
dice
,
But
oh
,
shame
to
my
manhood
,
a
lady
of
ice
,
We
master
her
by
craft
!
"
"
But
I
seem
to
remember
that
my
Lord
Dusiote
came
to
a
bad
end
,
"
she
laughed
at
me
.
"
Not
so
bad
an
end
—
it
must
have
been
worth
it
.
And
at
least
he
died
for
a
mistake
,
which
is
better
than
living
on
one
:
"
'
All
cloaked
and
masked
,
with
naked
blades
,
That
flashed
of
a
judgment
done
,
The
lords
of
the
Court
,
from
the
palace-door
,
Came
issuing
forth
,
bearers
four
,
And
flat
on
their
shoulders
one
.
'
"
But
Lord
Dusiote
's
gallant
death
left
her
quite
cold
,
for
she
was
suddenly
by
the
bookcase
,
running
caressing
fingers
over
a
binding
here
and
there
.
"
What
perfectly
divine
books
you
have
!
I
shall
read
them
all
,
and
give
up
Ethel
M
.
Dell
for
good
—
but
you
are
probably
one
of
those
stuffy
people
who
'
take
care
'
of
their
books
and
never
lend
them
to
any
one
because
they
are
first
editions
or
some
such
rubbish
.
"
"
You
can
have
them
all
,
"
I
said
,
"
and
you
can
turn
up
the
corner
of
every
page
if
you
like
,
and
you
can
spill
tea
on
every
cover
or
you
can
use
them
as
table
props
,
because
all
these
books
from
Chaucer
to
Pater
are
absolute
nonsense
at
this
moment
,
for
in
not
one
of
them
is
there
anything
about
a
dark-haired
young
woman
with
blue
eyes
and
a
tentative
mouth
,
and
the
indolent
caress
of
a
Latin
ancestress
somewhere
in
her
voice
,
standing
on
a
doorstep
in
a
dingy
road
,
calling
on
a
man
who
might
quite
easily
be
a
murderer
,
for
all
you
know
.
"
But
enough
of
that
,
for
the
situation
of
a
young
man
and
a
young
woman
in
a
third-floor
flat
miles
away
from
anywhere
that
mattered
,
at
eleven
o'clock
on
such
a
warm
autumn
night
as
makes
all
things
seem
unreal
and
beautiful
,
is
a
situation
with
a
beard
on
it
,
so
to
speak
.
When
I
first
knew
Phyllis
,
though
always
candid
,
she
was
inclined
to
be
rather
"
county
,
"
the
sort
of
woman
"
whose
people
are
all
Service
people
,
you
know
"
;
she
lived
with
her
mother
,
near
Chester
Square
,
who
at
first
disliked
me
because
I
was
not
in
the
Brigade
of
Guards
,
but
later
grew
quite
pleasantly
used
to
me
since
I
,
unlike
the
Brigade
of
Guards
,
it
seems
,
did
at
least
acknowledge
my
habitual
presence
in
her
house
by
emptying
Solomon
's
glory
into
her
flower
vases
;
and
if
there
's
a
better
reason
than
gratitude
for
getting
into
debt
,
tell
it
to
me
,
please
.
But
Phyllis
,
like
many
another
good
woman
of
these
Liberal
times
,
turned
her
bored
back
on
"
county
,
"
and
only
remembered
what
was
"
done
"
the
better
not
to
do
it
;
fought
for
,
and
won
a
latchkey
;
asserted
her
right
to
come
home
at
night
as
late
as
she
pleased
,
and
how
she
pleased
—
for
she
had
come
home
from
a
dance
one
night
on
a
benevolent
motor
lorry
,
which
she
had
begged
to
pick
her
up
on
Piccadilly
in
pity
for
her
"
tired
bones
,
"
and
which
,
in
cumbrously
dropping
her
at
mother
's
door
,
woke
up
the
whole
street
.
And
I
can
so
well
imagine
Phyllis
,
as
she
fitted
in
her
latchkey
,
murmuring
,
languidly
,
but
without
much
conviction
,
"
What
fun
women
have
...
.
"
But
,
in
the
reaction
of
her
type
against
the
preceding
age
of
Victoria
,
she
went
to
the
other
extreme
;
saw
life
too
much
through
the
medium
of
a
couple
of
absinthe
cocktails
before
each
meal
,
and
sex
too
much
as
though
it
were
entirely
a
joke
,
which
it
is
n't
...
quite
.
She
cut
her
hair
short
,
and
took
to
saying
"
damn
"
more
often
than
was
strictly
necessary
.
In
fact
,
she
would
have
been
quite
unbearable
if
she
had
n't
been
pretty
,
which
she
delightfully
was
.
And
,
unlike
her
more
careless
sisters
of
Chelsea
,
Hampstead
,
and
Golders
'
Green
,
she
did
not
make
the
terrible
mistake
of
dressing
all
anyhow
,
or
make
a
point
of
being
able
to
"
put
up
with
anything
"
;
such
as
,
sleeping
on
studio
floors
after
a
party
,
in
such
a
way
as
to
collect
the
maximum
amount
of
candle
grease
and
spilled
drink
on
her
skirts
,
and
wearing
men
's
discarded
felt
hats
,
cut
as
no
decent
man
would
be
seen
alive
wearing
one
,
and
Roger
Fry
sort
of
blouses
which
do
n't
quite
make
two
ends
meet
at
the
back
,
and
carrying
queer
handbags
made
,
perhaps
,
out
of
the
sole
of
a
Red
Indian
's
threadbare
moccasin
...
.
Bohemians
indeed
,
but
without
so
much
as
a
"
Bo
"
anywhere
about
them
!
They
can
"
stand
anything
,
"
as
they
have
let
it
be
generally
known
.
But
,
by
dressing
like
freaks
and
by
being
able
to
stand
anything
,
they
have
detracted
considerably
from
their
attraction
for
men
;
for
freaks
are
well
enough
in
freak-land
but
look
rather
silly
in
the
world
as
it
is
—
which
is
the
world
that
matters
,
after
all
;
and
what
the
devil
is
the
good
of
being
polite
and
making
a
fuss
of
a
woman
if
she
tells
you
repeatedly
that
she
can
"
stand
anything
,
"
and
much
prefers
the
feeling
of
independence
fostered
by
lighting
cigarettes
with
her
own
matches
,
and
opening
doors
with
her
own
so
unmanicured
fingers
?
I
suddenly
realise
at
this
very
moment
of
writing
why
those
months
in
South
Kensington
seemed
so
overpoweringly
dismal
,
and
that
even
now
it
is
only
time
which
lends
a
real
pleasure
to
the
memory
of
the
tall
,
dim
figure
(
Mr.
Charles
Garvice
would
have
called
her
"
sylph-like
.
"
I
wish
I
were
Mr.
Garvice
)
which
stood
on
my
doorstep
on
an
autumn
night
,
and
so
mysteriously
asked
for
me
.
For
that
beginning
had
a
dreary
end
,
as
indeed
all
endings
are
dreary
if
the
silken
cord
is
not
swiftly
and
sharply
cut
,
thus
leaving
a
neat
and
wonderful
surprise
,
instead
of
the
long-drawn
ending
of
frayed
edges
and
worn-out
emotions
which
drive
quite
nice
young
men
into
a
premature
cynicism
of
dotage
.
For
we
very
soon
tired
of
each
other
,
and
began
to
slip
away
into
our
different
lives
with
a
great
deal
of
talk
about
our
"
wonderful
friendship
"
;
though
we
both
of
us
knew
very
well
that
there
is
nothing
left
to
eat
in
an
empty
oyster
,
and
nothing
to
talk
about
on
a
desert
island
except
how
deserted
it
is
,
and
nothing
to
look
forward
to
when
you
have
too
quickly
reached
Ultima
Thule
but
to
get
as
quickly
back
again
and
examine
your
bruises
—
but
he
is
a
coward
who
has
n't
enough
kick
left
in
him
to
begin
again
and
repeat
his
mistake
,
for
though
two
wrongs
may
not
make
a
right
,
three
or
four
mistakes
of
this
sort
do
certainly
make
a
man
...
.
So
we
both
set
out
to
get
back
again
,
but
not
as
quickly
as
possible
,
because
Phyllis
is
a
woman
,
and
,
perhaps
,
I
am
by
way
of
having
a
few
manners
left
—
and
,
therefore
,
we
had
to
take
the
longest
way
back
;
and
were
both
very
tired
and
bored
with
each
other
when
at
last
I
suddenly
left
her
one
night
after
dinner
at
her
house
at
half-past
nine
,
because
I
had
a
headache
—
"
my
dear
,
aspirin
is
n't
any
good
,
really
it
is
n't
"
—
and
was
sure
she
had
one
,
too
...
.
Six
months
ago
I
had
a
letter
from
her
,
saying
that
she
was
going
to
marry
a
nice
fat
baronet
,
a
real
,
not
a
Brummagem
one
,
and
not
so
much
because
of
his
money
,
but
because
of
his
nice
,
solid
,
middle-class
ideas
,
which
would
help
to
tone
down
hers
.
Phyllis
was
like
that
,
and
I
've
often
wondered
very
much
about
that
wretched
baronet
,
whether
he
will
tone
her
down
,
or
whether
she
will
persuade
him
to
open
a
hat
shop
off
Bond
Street
in
aid
of
a
"
bus
conductors
'
"
orphanage
.
Phyllis
,
Phyllis
,
you
really
ca
n't
go
through
life
with
half
a
cold
grouse
in
one
hand
and
a
pint
of
Cliquot
'
04
in
the
other
.
There
are
other
things
...
so
they
say
.
V
IT
shames
me
a
little
to
confess
that
I
have
always
fitted
in
my
friends
to
suit
my
moods
;
for
it
may
seem
superior
of
me
,
as
though
I
attached
as
much
importance
to
my
moods
as
to
my
friends
,
and
therefore
too
much
to
the
former
;
but
it
is
really
quite
natural
and
human
,
for
there
is
no
man
,
be
he
ever
so
strong
,
who
does
not
somehow
sway
to
his
moment
's
mood
;
as
a
great
liner
imperceptibly
sways
to
the
lulling
roll
of
the
seas
—
as
compared
to
myself
,
a
rickety
,
rakish-looking
little
craft
which
goes
up
to
the
skies
and
down
into
the
trough
to
the
great
swing
of
those
mocking
waves
—
moods
!
But
I
,
as
I
say
,
unlike
that
strong
man
who
will
pretend
to
crush
his
mood
as
some
trifling
temptation
to
relax
his
hold
on
life
,
I
am
so
sociable
a
person
that
I
must
give
my
friends
every
side
of
myself
and
to
each
friend
his
particular
side
.
And
,
though
I
do
not
wish
to
seem
superior
I
have
so
far
mastered
the
art
of
friendship
,
of
which
Whistler
made
such
a
grievous
mess
,
that
that
side
of
me
which
such
and
such
a
friend
may
like
is
the
side
which
I
happen
to
wish
to
show
to
him
.
I
keep
it
for
him
,
labelling
it
his
;
when
I
see
him
in
the
distance
I
say
,
"
Dikran
,
up
and
away
and
be
at
him
"
;
for
I
think
it
incumbent
on
people
who
,
like
myself
,
are
not
really
significant
,
to
be
at
least
significant
in
their
relations
with
others
,
to
stand
out
as
something
,
even
as
a
buffoon
,
among
their
acquaintances
,
and
not
be
just
part
of
the
ruck
.
My
ideal
is
,
of
course
,
that
splendid
person
of
Henry
James
'
,
in
"
The
Private
Life
,
"
who
faded
away
,
did
not
exist
,
when
he
was
alone
,
but
was
wonderfully
and
variably
present
when
even
a
chambermaid
was
watching
him
.
That
subtle
,
ironic
creation
of
Henry
James
'
is
the
very
incarnation
of
a
Divine
Sociability
,
but
in
actual
life
there
is
no
artist
perfect
enough
to
give
himself
so
wholly
to
others
that
he
literally
does
not
exist
to
himself
.
I
am
not
selfish
,
then
,
with
my
moods
;
with
a
little
revision
and
polishing
I
can
make
them
presentable
enough
to
give
to
my
friends
as
,
to
say
vulgarly
,
the
real
article
,
the
real
me
.
And
of
them
all
there
is
one
special
mood
,
a
neutral-tinted
,
tired
,
sceptical
thing
,
which
I
have
come
to
reserve
exclusively
for
my
friend
Nikolay
,
who
lives
in
a
studio
in
Fitzroy
Street
,
and
faintly
despises
people
for
living
anywhere
else
.
When
I
had
pressed
his
bell
I
had
to
step
back
and
watch
for
his
face
at
the
third-floor
window
,
which
,
having
emerged
and
grunted
at
me
below
,
would
dwindle
into
a
hand
from
which
would
drop
the
latchkey
into
my
upturned
hat
.
Then
very
wearily
—
I
had
to
live
up
to
my
mood
,
you
see
,
else
why
visit
Nikolay
?
—
I
would
climb
the
stone
steps
to
his
studio
.
Once
there
,
I
resigned
myself
to
a
delicious
and
conscious
indolence
.
My
thoughts
drifted
up
with
my
cigarette
smoke
,
and
faded
with
it
.
My
special
place
was
on
the
divan
in
the
corner
of
the
large
room
,
under
a
long
shelf
of
neatly
arranged
first
editions
,
from
which
I
would
now
and
again
pick
one
,
finger
it
lazily
,
mutter
just
audibly
that
I
had
bought
that
same
book
half-a-crown
cheaper
,
and
relapse
into
silence
.
If
uncongenial
visitors
dropped
in
,
I
would
abuse
Nikolay
's
hospitality
by
at
once
turning
over
on
my
left
side
and
going
to
sleep
until
they
had
gone
.
But
generally
no
one
came
,
and
we
were
alone
and
silent
.
From
the
divan
I
would
watch
Nikolay
at
work
at
his
long
table
in
front
of
the
window
,
through
which
could
be
seen
all
the
chimneys
in
Fitzroy
Street
,
Charlotte
Street
,
and
Tottenham
Court
Road
.
How
he
could
do
any
work
at
all
(
and
work
of
colour
!
)
with
the
drab
cosmopolitanism
of
this
view
ever
before
his
eyes
,
I
do
not
know
;
myself
would
have
to
be
very
drunk
before
I
could
ignore
those
uncongenial
backs
of
houses
and
chimneys
,
stuck
up
in
the
air
like
the
grimy
paws
of
a
gutter-brat
humanity
.
For
an
hour
on
end
,
until
he
turned
to
me
and
said
,
"
Tea
,
Dikran
?
"
I
would
watch
him
through
my
smoke
,
as
though
fascinated
by
the
bent
,
slight
figure
as
it
drew
and
painted
,
with
so
delicate
a
precision
of
movement
,
those
unreal
and
intangible
illustrations
,
which
tried
at
first
to
impress
one
by
their
drawing
or
colouring
,
but
seemed
to
me
mainly
expressions
of
the
artist
's
grim
and
ironic
detachment
from
other
men
;
a
macabre
observer
,
as
it
were
,
of
their
passions
,
himself
passionless
,
but
widely
,
almost
wickedly
,
tolerant
.
An
erect
satyr
in
topsy-turvydom
.
If
it
were
any
other
man
than
Nikolay
,
I
would
know
him
well
,
for
I
have
seen
much
of
him
,
but
one
knows
men
by
their
"
points
of
view
,
"
and
I
am
not
sure
that
Nikolay
ever
had
one
.
He
was
,
or
rather
he
seemed
definitely
to
be
,
curiously
wise
;
one
never
put
his
wisdom
to
the
test
;
one
never
heard
him
say
an
overpoweringly
wise
thing
,
but
there
was
no
doubt
that
he
was
wise
.
People
said
he
was
wise
.
Women
said
it
.
A
strange
man
,
indeed
;
queer
,
and
a
little
sinister
.
Perhaps
six
hundred
years
ago
he
might
have
been
an
alchemist
living
in
a
three-storied
house
in
Prague
,
exiled
from
his
native
land
of
Russia
for
criticising
too
openly
the
size
of
the
Czarina
's
ears
;
for
Nikolay
knows
no
fear
,
he
can
be
ruder
than
any
man
I
know
.
I
have
heard
him
answer
a
woman
that
her
new
hat
did
n't
suit
her
at
all
.
"
I
think
it
is
a
rotten
hat
,
"
he
said
,
and
the
vanity
of
an
admitted
thirty
years
faded
from
her
,
she
was
as
a
dejected
houri
before
the
repelling
eyes
of
a
Salhadine
.
He
had
not
always
been
so
detached
and
passionless
.
Steps
of
folly
must
somehow
have
led
up
to
that
philosophic
wisdom
which
so
definitely
obtruded
on
the
consciousness
;
so
definitely
,
indeed
,
that
I
have
watched
women
,
as
we
perhaps
sat
round
the
card-table
in
his
studio
,
and
seen
them
in
their
manner
defer
to
him
,
as
though
he
were
a
great
man
in
the
eyes
of
the
world
,
which
he
is
n't
.
But
to
be
treated
as
a
great
man
,
even
by
women
,
when
you
are
not
a
great
man
,
is
indeed
the
essence
of
greatness
!
Bravo
,
Nikolay
!
I
see
you
,
not
as
I
have
always
seen
you
,
but
in
Paris
,
where
rumour
tells
of
you
;
in
Paris
,
where
your
art
was
your
hobby
and
life
your
serious
business
,
and
a
dress
suit
the
essential
of
your
visibility
of
an
evening
.
I
feel
riot
and
revelry
somewhere
in
you
,
Nikolay
;
the
dim
green
lights
of
past
experiences
do
very
queerly
mock
the
wisdom
in
your
contemplative
eye
.
I
am
to
suppose
,
then
,
that
you
have
seen
other
things
than
the
rehearsals
of
a
ballet
,
have
marvelled
at
other
things
than
the
architecture
of
Spanish-Gothic
cathedrals
?
Ah
,
I
have
the
secret
of
you
!
You
are
a
mediæval
,
a
knight
of
old
exotic
times
,
a
Sir
Lancelot
without
naïveté
.
Now
,
as
the
years
take
you
,
it
is
only
in
your
drawings
that
your
mind
runs
cynically
riot
among
the
indiscretions
of
literature
—
what
a
sinister
inner
gleam
I
espied
in
you
when
you
told
me
that
you
were
going
to
illustrate
the
poems
of
François
Villon
!
But
in
Paris
,
long
ago
,
I
see
you
,
Nikolay
,
standing
in
the
curtained
doorway
of
a
cushion-spread
studio
,
where
the
lights
shine
faintly
through
the
red
arabesques
patterned
on
the
black
lamp
shades
.
I
see
you
standing
there
with
a
half-empty
glass
of
Courvoisier
in
your
hand
,
sipping
,
and
watching
,
and
smiling
...
.
And
women
,
perhaps
—
nay
!
a
princess
for
very
certain
,
it
is
said
—
running
wild
over
the
immobility
of
your
face
,
immobile
even
through
those
first
perfervid
years
.
But
it
did
not
always
happen
that
I
found
him
working
at
his
table
by
the
window
.
Sometimes
he
would
be
pacing
restlessly
up
and
down
the
room
,
and
round
the
cardtable
in
the
centre
(
which
was
also
a
lunch
,
tea
,
and
dinner
table
)
.
"
I
have
never
before
been
four
years
in
one
place
,
"
he
said
.
"
I
have
never
been
six
months
in
one
place
.
"
He
related
it
as
a
possibly
interesting
fact
,
not
as
a
cavil
against
circumstances
.
It
shows
what
little
I
knew
of
,
or
about
,
him
,
that
I
had
never
before
heard
of
his
travels
.
"
But
how
have
you
ever
done
any
work
if
you
never
stayed
in
one
place
,
never
settled
down
?
"
"
Settled
down
!
"
He
stopped
in
his
walk
and
fixed
on
me
with
a
disapproving
eye
.
"
That
's
a
nasty
bad
word
,
Dikran
.
The
being-at-home
feeling
is
a
sedative
to
all
art
and
progress
.
In
the
end
it
kills
imagination
.
It
is
a
soporific
,
a
—
what
you
call
it
?
—
a
dope
.
There
's
a
feeling
of
contentment
in
being
at
home
,
and
you
ca
n't
squeeze
any
creation
out
of
contentment
.
"
Permanent
homes
,
"
he
said
,
"
were
invented
because
men
wanted
safety
.
The
safety
of
expectation
!
Imagination
is
a
curse
to
most
men
;
they
are
not
comfortable
with
it
;
they
think
it
is
unsettling
.
Life
is
an
experiment
until
you
have
a
home
,
and
feel
that
it
is
a
home
.
Men
like
that
.
They
like
the
idea
of
having
a
definite
pillow
on
which
to
lay
their
heads
every
night
,
of
having
a
definite
woman
,
called
a
wife
,
beside
them
...
.
Bah
!
Charity
begins
at
home
,
and
inertia
stays
there
.
Safety
does
n't
breed
art
or
progress
—
and
when
it
does
,
it
miscarries
—
the
Royal
Academy
...
.
"
Men
want
homes
,
"
he
said
,
"
because
they
want
wives
.
And
they
generally
want
wives
because
they
do
n't
want
to
be
worried
by
the
sex-feeling
any
more
.
They
do
n't
want
women
left
to
their
own
imagination
any
more
.
They
want
the
thing
over
and
done
with
for
ever
and
ever
.
Safety
!
Men
are
not
adventurous
...
.
"
He
turned
to
me
sharply
.
"
Look
at
you
!
"
he
said
.
"
Have
you
done
anything
?
Since
I
have
known
you
,
you
have
done
nothing
but
write
self-conscious
essays
which
"
The
New
Age
"
tolerates
;
you
have
played
about
with
life
as
you
have
with
literature
,
as
though
it
were
all
a
question
of
commas
and
semi-colons
...
.
You
have
tried
to
idealise
love-affairs
into
a
pretty
phrase
,
and
in
your
spare
time
you
lie
on
that
divan
and
look
up
at
the
ceiling
and
dream
of
the
luxurious
vices
of
Heliogabalus
...
.
You
are
horribly
lazy
,
not
adventurous
at
all
.
What
's
it
matter
if
your
cuffs
get
dirty
as
long
as
your
hands
get
hold
of
something
?
"
"
One
can
always
change
one
's
shirt
,
if
that
is
what
you
suggest
,
Nikolay
.
But
you
are
wrong
about
my
not
being
adventurous
—
I
shall
adventure
many
things
.
But
not
sensationally
,
you
know
.
I
mean
,
I
ca
n't
look
at
myself
straight
,
I
can
only
look
at
myself
sideways
;
and
that
perhaps
is
just
as
well
for
I
overlook
many
things
in
myself
which
it
is
good
to
overlook
,
and
I
can
smile
at
things
which
James
Joyce
would
write
a
book
about
.
And
when
I
write
a
novel
—
for
of
course
I
will
write
one
,
since
England
expects
every
young
man
to
write
a
novel
—
the
quality
I
shall
desire
in
it
will
be
,
well
,
fastidiousness
...
.
I
come
from
the
East
;
I
shall
go
to
the
East
;
I
shall
try
to
strike
the
literary
mean
between
the
East
and
the
West
in
me
—
between
my
Eastern
mind
and
Western
understanding
.
It
will
be
a
great
adventure
.
"
"
The
East
is
a
shambles
,
"
he
said
shortly
.
And
in
that
sentence
lay
my
own
condemnation
of
my
real
self
;
if
any
hope
of
fame
ever
lay
in
me
,
I
suddenly
realised
,
it
was
in
that
acquired
self
which
had
been
to
a
public
school
and
thought
it
not
well
bred
to
have
too
aggressive
a
point
of
view
.
Oh
,
but
what
nonsense
it
all
was
!
I
lazily
thought
—
this
striving
after
fame
and
notoriety
in
a
despairing
world
.
I
looked
at
Nikolay
,
who
had
done
all
the
talking
he
would
do
that
day
,
and
was
now
sitting
in
an
arm-chair
and
staring
thoughtfully
at
the
floor
;
thoughtfully
,
I
say
,
but
perhaps
it
was
vacantly
,
for
his
face
was
a
mask
,
as
weird
,
in
its
way
,
as
those
fiendish
masks
which
he
delighted
in
making
.
And
,
as
I
watched
him
like
this
,
I
would
say
to
myself
that
,
if
I
watched
long
enough
,
I
would
be
sure
to
surprise
something
;
but
I
never
surprised
anything
at
all
,
for
he
would
surprise
me
looking
at
him
,
and
his
sudden
genial
smile
would
bring
him
back
into
the
world
of
men
,
leaving
me
nothing
but
the
skeleton
of
a
guilty
and
ludicrous
fancy
;
and
of
my
many
ludicrous
fancies
about
my
friend
this
was
indeed
the
most
ludicrous
,
for
I
had
caught
myself
thinking
that
he
was
not
really
a
man
at
all
,
but
just
part
of
a
drawing
by
Félicien
Rops
...
.
VI
FROM
my
flat
in
Monday
Road
to
Piccadilly
Circus
was
a
long
way
,
and
the
first
part
of
it
wearisome
enough
through
the
Fulham
Road
,
with
its
cancer
and
consumption
hospitals
,
its
out-of-the-centre
dinginess
,
its
thrifty
,
eager-looking
,
dowdy
women
,
and
its
decrepit
intellectuals
slouching
along
with
their
heads
twisted
over
their
shoulders
looking
back
for
a
bus
,
on
the
top
of
which
they
will
sit
with
an
air
of
grieved
and
bitter
dislike
of
the
people
near
them
.
But
at
Hyde
Park
Corner
I
would
get
off
the
bus
,
for
I
have
a
conventional
fondness
for
Piccadilly
,
and
like
to
walk
the
length
of
it
to
the
Circus
.
I
like
to
walk
on
the
Green
Park
side
;
in
summer
because
of
the
fresh
,
green
,
rustling
trees
,
an
unhurried
pleasaunce
in
London
's
chaotic
noises
,
and
in
winter
because
I
like
nothing
better
than
to
look
at
leaf-stripped
trees
standing
nakedly
against
a
grey
sky
,
finger-posts
of
Nature
pointing
to
the
real
No-Man
's
Land
,
and
illustrating
the
miraculous
wonder
of
being
just
beautiful
,
as
no
man-made
thing
can
be
;
for
all
things
made
by
man
,
a
picture
,
or
,
if
you
like
,
a
woman
's
shoes
with
heels
of
stained
majolica
,
have
an
aim
and
a
purpose
.
They
lack
the
futility
,
of
which
Nature
alone
has
the
secret
,
of
being
just
carelessly
beautiful
.
When
I
say
Nature
,
I
do
not
see
the
Dame
Nature
of
Oscar
Wilde
's
crooked
vision
,
a
crude
,
slatternly
charwoman
,
but
a
spendthrift
prodigal
,
spending
for
the
sheer
love
of
spending
;
he
takes
every
man
by
the
sleeve
,
and
with
delicious
good
manners
he
makes
it
seem
that
he
values
your
opinion
above
all
others
,
that
he
has
created
the
beauty
of
the
world
to
please
in
particular
your
eye
,
that
you
will
sadly
disappoint
him
if
you
hint
that
you
had
n't
much
liked
the
tinge
of
vermilion
in
yestreen
's
sunset
,
for
he
had
touched
in
that
vermilion
just
to
give
you
a
pleasant
surprise
.
Thus
it
is
with
Nature
and
myself
;
I
see
him
as
an
old
beau
,
given
to
leering
in
cities
,
but
frank
and
natural
in
open
places
.
And
he
knows
me
well
,
too
;
knows
I
am
no
minor
poet
,
no
poet
at
all
,
in
fact
,
and
,
therefore
,
not
to
be
gulled
by
insincere
sunsets
and
valleys
without
shade
or
colour
;
that
the
idea
of
a
fawn
skipping
about
where
I
do
n't
expect
him
,
far
from
causing
in
me
a
metrical
paroxysm
after
Mr.
Robert
Nichols
,
frankly
bores
me
;
he
has
shown
me
an
odd
nymph
here
and
there
,
but
I
have
n't
encouraged
him
...
.
They
are
so
intangible
,
I
thought
,
and
they
faded
away
.
So
at
last
,
in
desperation
,
he
stuck
up
a
naked
tree
against
a
grey
sky
,
and
I
thought
it
beautiful
.
It
is
a
matter
entirely
between
the
old
beau
and
myself
.
For
all
I
care
,
you
may
think
my
stripped
tree
a
stupid
old
tree
,
but
to
me
it
is
beautiful
.
I
see
life
that
way
.
But
the
day
I
am
thinking
of
,
when
I
got
off
the
bus
at
Hyde
Park
Corner
,
was
towards
the
end
of
October
,
when
oysters
have
already
become
a
commonplace
;
and
as
I
walked
up
the
Green
Park
side
,
the
path
around
me
was
strewn
with
brown
and
red
and
faded
green
leaves
,
the
last
sacrifice
of
autumn
to
winter
.
I
wondered
why
all
things
did
not
die
as
beautifully
and
as
naturally
as
autumn
dies
.
If
all
things
died
like
that
,
there
would
be
no
fear
in
the
world
,
and
a
world
without
fear
would
be
just
a
splendid
adventure
,
and
life
would
be
like
chasing
a
sunset
to
the
Antipodes
—
it
would
disappear
only
to
appear
again
,
more
wonderfully
.
But
the
fear
of
the
shapeless
bogey
behind
existence
has
been
the
peculiar
gift
of
God
;
for
so
long
He
has
chosen
to
be
secretive
about
death
,
and
the
secret
of
it
is
in
the
eating
of
the
last
remaining
apple
on
the
Tree
of
Knowledge
.
But
,
O
God
,
it
is
all
a
vain
secrecy
,
this
about
death
.
Man
was
not
made
to
be
so
easily
satisfied
.
Education
may
have
made
him
ignorant
,
but
he
was
born
inquisitive
.
Some
day
,
some
day
,
a
more
subtle
and
less
solid
Conan
Doyle
will
arise
,
and
valiantly
catch
a
too
indiscreet
ancestral
ghost
,
and
holloa
to
a
professor
to
X-ray
his
astral
vitals
,
to
find
out
by
what
means
and
processes
came
a
living
man
to
be
a
dead
man
and
then
an
ancestral
ghost
.
Their
discoveries
will
then
be
written
down
in
the
form
of
a
memoir
and
made
into
a
fat
book
,
complete
with
a
spiritual
preface
and
an
astral
index
,
and
will
cause
a
great
stir
in
the
world
.
But
it
will
be
a
great
shame
on
the
Tree
of
Knowledge
to
have
its
last
apple
knocked
down
from
it
by
a
paltry
book
.
This
last
week
or
so
of
autumn
is
the
time
of
all
times
when
the
fanatic
hermit
,
sitting
alone
in
his
desert
place
,
should
be
tolerant
of
the
world
's
frailty
.
If
such
an
one
would
let
me
,
a
worldly
enough
young
man
,
approach
him
,
I
would
tell
him
of
the
great
joys
there
is
in
walking
with
a
loved
woman
on
crisp
wind-blown
leaves
,
under
country
trees
,
with
tea
soon
to
be
ready
before
a
big
fire
in
the
house
half-a-mile
away
.
At
that
my
hermit
would
look
at
me
angrily
,
for
a
fleshly
young
man
indeed
,
but
I
would
go
on
to
tell
him
of
how
there
is
no
splendour
anywhere
like
to
the
splendour
of
a
youth
's
dreams
at
that
quiet
time
;
dreams
that
may
be
of
a
palace
made
of
dead
leaves
,
with
terraced
pleasure
gardens
fashioned
out
of
autumn
air
,
in
which
he
would
walk
with
his
mistress
,
and
be
a
king
and
she
a
queen
of
more
than
one
world
...
.
As
though
for
the
first
time
,
I
noticed
that
afternoon
a
sheen
of
livid
copper
over
the
scattered
leaves
,
and
I
said
to
myself
that
it
was
an
undefinable
addition
to
their
beauty
,
like
the
sheen
of
blue
in
the
dark
hair
of
Shelmerdene
,
as
she
sat
in
the
corner
of
a
sofa
under
a
Liberty-shaded
lamp
.
The
passing
thought
of
Shelmerdene
fixed
my
attention
through
the
Park
railings
on
the
prostrate
figures
here
and
there
of
men
sleeping
,
for
it
was
a
very
mild
afternoon
for
late
October
.
Sleep
was
her
foible
,
the
hobby-horse
on
which
she
would
capriciously
ride
to
heights
of
unreason
whither
no
man
could
follow
her
and
remain
sane
.
She
admitted
that
she
herself
had
,
occasionally
,
to
sleep
;
but
she
apologised
for
it
,
resented
the
necessity
.
And
,
as
I
walked
,
I
saw
a
sleeping
,
dejected
figure
too
near
the
Park
railings
as
though
with
her
eyes
,
and
was
as
disgusted
.
But
I
smiled
at
the
memory
of
her
wild
flights
of
mythical
reasoning
.
"
The
mistake
Jehovah
made
,
"
I
heard
her
saying
,
"
was
to
teach
Adam
and
Eve
that
it
was
pleasanter
and
more
comfortable
to
lie
and
sleep
on
the
same
well-worn
spot
in
Eden
every
night
than
to
move
about
the
Garden
and
venture
new
resting-places
.
It
was
a
great
mistake
,
for
it
gave
sleep
a
definite
and
important
value
,
it
became
something
to
be
sought
for
in
a
special
and
comfortable
place
.
Sleep
ceased
to
be
a
careless
lapse
,
as
it
had
been
at
first
when
Adam
madly
chased
the
shadow
of
Lilith
through
the
twilight
.
In
the
company
of
Eve
sleep
was
no
more
a
state
for
the
tired
body
,
and
only
for
the
body
,
but
it
became
a
thing
of
the
senses
;
so
many
hours
definitely
and
defiantly
flung
as
a
sop
to
Time
.
Sleep
became
part
of
the
business
of
life
,
whereas
,
in
those
first
careless
days
of
Adam
's
unending
pursuit
of
Lilith
,
it
had
been
only
part
of
the
hazard
of
life
.
"
If
Lilith
had
been
allowed
to
have
the
handling
of
Adam
,
"
she
said
,
"
instead
of
Eve
,
who
was
the
comfortable
sort
of
woman
'
born
to
be
a
mother
,
'
sleep
,
as
we
know
it
,
would
never
have
happened
;
unnecessary
,
gluttonous
sleep
,
the
mind-sleep
!
"
Lilith
was
a
real
woman
,
and
very
beautiful
.
She
was
the
first
and
greatest
and
most
mysterious
of
all
courtesans
—
as
,
indeed
,
the
devil
's
mistress
would
have
to
be
,
or
lose
her
job
.
She
must
have
had
the
eyes
of
a
Phœnix
,
veiled
and
secret
,
but
their
secret
was
only
the
secret
of
love
and
danger
—
Danger
!
Jehovah
never
had
a
chance
against
Lucifer
,
who
was
,
after
all
,
a
man
of
the
world
,
in
his
fight
for
the
soul
of
Lilith
.
She
never
had
a
soul
,
and
it
was
of
Lilith
Swinburne
must
have
been
thinking
when
he
wrote
'
Faustine
,
'
which
silly
fools
of
men
have
addressed
to
me
...
.
Of
course
,
she
chose
Lucifer
.
Who
would
n't
choose
a
dashing
young
rebel
,
a
splendid
failure
if
ever
there
was
one
,
with
a
name
like
Lucifer
,
as
compared
to
a
darling
,
respectable
,
anxious
old
man
called
Jehovah
?
It
's
like
asking
a
young
woman
to
choose
between
Byron
and
Tolstoi
...
"
But
Shelmerdene
had
long
since
gone
,
to
play
at
life
and
make
fools
of
men
;
to
make
men
,
to
break
men
,
they
said
of
her
,
and
leave
them
in
the
dust
,
grovelling
arabesques
on
the
carpet
of
their
humiliated
love
.
"
Let
them
be
,
let
them
be
in
peace
,
"
I
had
said
to
her
impatiently
,
but
she
had
turned
large
,
inquiring
,
serious
eyes
on
me
,
and
answered
,
"
I
want
to
find
out
.
"
She
had
,
indeed
,
gone
"
to
find
out
"
—
to
Persia
,
they
said
,
on
a
splendid
,
despairing
chase
.
And
I
saw
a
vision
of
her
there
,
but
not
as
the
proud
,
beautiful
creature
who
filled
and
emptied
a
man
's
life
as
though
for
a
caprice
;
I
saw
her
on
her
knees
in
a
ruined
pagan
temple
on
a
deserted
river
bank
,
purified
,
and
satisfied
,
and
tired
,
entreating
the
spectre
of
the
monstrous
goddess
,
Ishtar
,
to
let
her
cease
from
the
quest
of
love
...
I
am
so
tired
,
she
is
saying
to
the
nebulous
goddess
who
has
fashioned
the
years
of
her
life
into
a
love-tale
.
But
who
is
Shelmerdene
to
beg
a
favour
from
Ishtar
,
who
,
in
the
guise
of
Astarte
in
Syria
and
Astaroth
in
Canaan
,
upset
the
gods
and
households
of
great
peoples
and
debauched
their
minds
,
so
that
in
later
ages
they
were
fit
for
nothing
but
to
be
conquered
and
to
serve
Rome
and
Byzantium
as
concubines
and
eunuchs
?
Poor
,
weak
Shelmerdene
!
Slave
of
Ishtar
!
Did
n't
you
know
,
when
,
as
a
young
girl
,
you
set
yourself
,
mischievously
but
seriously
,
"
to
find
out
"
about
men
and
life
,
that
you
would
never
be
able
to
stop
,
that
you
would
go
on
and
on
,
even
from
Mayfair
to
Chorasan
?
You
should
have
known
.
You
have
been
so
wantonly
blind
,
Shelmerdene
.
You
have
idealised
to-morrow
and
forgotten
to-day
—
and
now
,
perhaps
,
you
are
on
your
knees
in
a
ruined
temple
in
the
East
,
begging
favours
of
Ishtar
.
Not
she
to
grant
you
a
favour
!
Trouble
has
always
come
to
the
world
from
such
as
she
,
a
malignant
goddess
.
It
has
been
said
that
Semiramis
conquered
the
world
,
and
Ishtar
set
it
on
fire
...
.
VII
I
asked
her
once
,
but
long
after
I
had
realised
that
loving
Shelmerdene
could
not
be
my
one
business
in
life
,
if
she
did
not
feel
that
perhaps
—
I
was
tentative
—
she
would
some
day
be
punished
.
"
But
how
young
you
are
!
"
she
said
.
"
You
do
n't
really
think
I
am
a
sort
of
Zuleika
Dobson
,
do
you
?
—
just
because
one
wretched
man
once
thought
it
worth
while
to
shoot
himself
because
of
me
,
and
just
because
men
have
that
peculiar
form
of
Sadism
which
makes
them
torture
themselves
through
their
love
,
when
they
have
ceased
to
be
loved
...
.
It
's
a
horrible
sight
,
my
dear
—
men
grovelling
in
their
unreturned
emotions
so
as
to
get
the
last
twinge
of
pain
out
of
their
humiliation
.
I
've
seen
them
grovelling
,
and
they
knew
all
the
time
that
it
would
do
no
good
,
merely
put
them
farther
away
from
me
—
or
from
any
woman
,
for
the
matter
of
that
.
But
they
like
grovelling
,
these
six-foot
,
stolid
men
.
"
"
But
have
n't
you
ever
been
on
your
knees
,
Shelmerdene
?
"
"
Of
course
I
have
.
Lots
of
times
.
I
always
begin
like
that
—
in
fact
,
I
've
never
had
an
affair
which
did
n't
begin
with
my
being
down
and
under
.
I
am
so
frightfully
impressionable
...
.
"
You
see
,
"
she
touched
my
arm
,
"
I
am
rather
a
quick
person
.
I
mean
I
fall
in
love
,
or
whatever
you
call
my
sort
of
emotion
,
quickly
.
While
the
man
is
just
beginning
to
think
that
I
've
got
rather
nice
eyes
,
and
that
I
'm
perhaps
more
amusing
than
the
damfool
women
he
's
known
so
far
,
I
'm
frantically
in
love
.
I
do
all
my
grovelling
then
.
And
,
Dikran
!
if
you
could
only
see
me
,
if
you
could
only
be
invisible
and
see
me
loving
a
man
more
than
he
loves
me
—
you
simply
would
n't
know
me
.
And
I
make
love
awfully
well
,
in
my
quiet
sort
of
way
,
much
better
than
any
man
—
and
different
love-speeches
to
every
different
man
,
too
!
I
say
the
divinest
things
to
them
—
and
quite
seriously
,
thank
God
!
The
day
I
ca
n't
fall
in
love
with
a
man
seriously
,
and
tell
him
he
's
the
only
man
I
've
ever
really
loved
,
and
really
believe
it
when
I
'm
saying
it
—
the
day
I
ca
n't
do
that
I
shall
know
I
'm
an
old
,
old
woman
,
too
old
to
live
any
more
.
"
"
Then
,
of
course
,
you
will
die
?
"
I
suggested
.
"
Of
course
I
will
die
,
"
she
said
.
"
But
not
vulgarly
—
I
mean
I
wo
n't
make
a
point
of
it
,
and
feel
a
fat
coroner
's
eyes
on
my
body
as
my
soul
goes
up
to
Gabriel
.
I
shall
die
in
my
bed
,
of
a
broken
heart
.
My
heart
will
break
when
I
begin
to
fade
.
I
shall
die
before
I
have
faded
...
.
"
"
No
,
you
wo
n't
,
Shelmerdene
,
"
I
said
.
"
Many
women
have
sworn
that
,
from
Theodosia
to
La
Pompadour
,
but
they
have
not
died
of
broken
hearts
because
they
never
realised
when
they
began
to
fade
,
and
no
man
ever
dared
tell
them
,
not
even
a
Roi
Soleil
.
"
"
Oh
,
do
n't
be
pedantic
,
Dikran
,
and
do
n't
worry
me
about
what
other
women
will
or
wo
n't
do
.
You
will
be
quoting
the
'
Dolly
Dialogues
'
at
me
next
,
and
saying
'
Women
will
be
women
all
the
world
over
.
'
"
It
is
always
like
that
about
me
and
men
,
"
she
said
.
"
I
burn
and
burn
and
fizzle
out
.
And
all
the
time
the
man
is
wondering
if
I
am
playing
with
him
or
not
,
if
it
is
worth
his
while
to
fall
in
love
with
me
or
not
—
poor
pathos
,
as
if
he
could
help
it
in
the
end
!
And
then
,
at
last
,
when
he
realises
that
he
is
in
love
,
he
begins
to
say
the
things
I
had
longed
for
him
to
say
four
weeks
before
;
every
Englishman
in
love
is
simply
bound
to
say
,
at
one
time
or
another
,
that
he
would
adore
to
lie
with
his
beloved
in
a
gondola
in
Venice
,
looking
at
the
stars
;
any
Englishman
who
does
n't
say
that
when
he
is
in
love
is
a
suspicious
character
,
and
it
will
probably
turn
out
that
he
talks
French
perfectly
.
"
And
when
at
last
he
has
fallen
in
love
,
"
she
said
dreamily
,
"
he
wants
me
to
run
away
with
him
,
and
he
is
very
hurt
and
surprised
when
I
refuse
,
and
pathetically
says
something
'
about
my
having
led
him
to
expect
that
I
loved
him
to
death
,
and
would
do
anything
for
or
with
him
.
'
The
poor
little
man
does
n't
know
that
he
is
behind
the
times
,
that
he
could
have
done
anything
he
liked
with
me
the
first
week
we
met
,
when
I
was
madly
in
love
with
him
,
that
when
I
was
dying
for
him
to
ask
me
to
go
away
with
him
,
and
would
gladly
have
made
a
mess
of
my
life
at
one
word
from
him
—
but
four
weeks
later
I
would
rather
have
died
than
go
away
with
him
.
"
Only
once
,
"
she
said
,
"
I
was
almost
beaten
.
I
fell
in
love
with
a
stone
figure
.
Women
are
like
sea-gulls
,
they
worship
stone
figures
...
.
I
went
very
mad
,
Dikran
.
He
told
me
that
he
did
n't
deserve
being
loved
by
me
—
he
admired
me
tremendously
,
you
see
—
because
he
had
n't
it
in
his
poor
soul
to
love
any
one
.
He
simply
could
n't
love
,
he
said
...
and
he
felt
such
a
brute
.
He
said
that
often
,
poor
boy
—
he
felt
such
a
brute
!
He
passed
a
hand
over
his
forehead
and
,
with
a
tragic
little
English
gesture
,
tried
to
be
articulate
,
to
tell
me
how
intensely
he
felt
that
he
was
missing
the
best
things
in
life
,
and
yet
could
n't
rectify
it
,
because
...
.
'
Oh
,
my
dear
,
I
'm
a
hopeless
person
!
'
he
said
despairingly
,
and
I
forgot
to
pity
myself
in
pitying
him
.
"
But
he
got
cold
again
.
He
weighed
his
words
carefully
:
No
,
he
liked
me
as
much
as
he
could
like
any
one
,
but
he
did
n't
think
he
loved
me
—
mark
that
glorious
,
arrogant
think
,
Dikran
!
...
He
was
very
ambitious
;
with
the
sort
of
confident
,
yet
intensive
,
nerve-racking
ambition
which
makes
great
men
.
Very
young
,
very
wonderful
,
brilliantly
successful
in
his
career
at
an
age
when
other
men
were
only
beginning
theirs
—
an
iron
man
,
with
the
self-destructive
selfishness
of
ice
,
which
freezes
the
thing
that
touches
it
,
but
itself
melts
in
the
end
...
.
He
froze
me
.
Do
n't
think
I
'm
exaggerating
,
please
,
but
,
as
he
spoke
—
it
was
at
lunch
,
and
a
coon
band
was
playing
—
I
died
away
all
to
myself
.
I
just
died
,
and
then
came
to
life
again
,
coldly
,
and
bitterly
,
and
despairingly
,
but
still
loving
him
...
.
I
could
n't
not
love
him
,
you
see
.
His
was
the
sort
of
beauty
that
was
strong
,
and
vital
,
and
a
little
contemptuous
,
and
with
an
English
cleanness
about
it
that
was
scented
...
.
I
am
still
loyal
to
my
first
despairing
impression
of
him
.
And
I
knew
that
I
was
really
in
love
with
him
,
because
I
could
n't
bear
the
idea
of
ever
having
loved
any
one
else
.
I
was
sixteen
again
,
and
worshipped
a
hero
,
a
man
who
did
things
.
"
I
was
a
fool
,
of
course
—
to
believe
him
,
I
mean
.
But
when
women
lose
their
heads
they
lose
the
self-confidence
and
pride
of
a
lifetime
,
too
—
and
,
anyway
,
it
's
all
rubbish
about
pride
;
there
is
n't
any
pride
in
absolute
love
.
There
's
a
name
to
be
made
out
of
a
brilliant
epigram
on
love
and
pride
—
think
it
over
,
Dikran
...
.
What
an
utter
fool
I
was
to
believe
him
!
As
he
spoke
,
over
that
lunch-table
,
I
watched
his
grey
English
eyes
,
which
tried
to
look
straight
into
mine
but
could
n't
,
because
he
was
shy
;
he
was
trying
to
be
frightfully
honest
with
me
,
you
see
,
and
being
so
honest
makes
decent
men
shy
.
He
felt
such
a
brute
,
but
he
had
to
warn
me
that
in
any
love
affair
with
him
,
he
...
yes
,
he
did
love
me
,
in
his
way
,
he
suddenly
admitted
.
But
his
way
was
n't
,
could
n't
ever
be
,
mine
.
He
simply
could
n't
give
himself
wholly
to
any
one
,
as
I
was
doing
.
And
he
so
frightfully
wanted
to
—
to
sink
into
my
love
for
him
...
.
'
Shelmerdene
,
it
's
all
so
damnable
,
'
he
said
pathetically
,
and
his
sincerity
bit
into
me
.
But
I
had
made
up
my
mind
.
I
was
going
to
do
the
last
foolish
thing
in
a
foolish
life
—
I
'm
a
sentimentalist
,
you
know
.
"
I
believed
him
.
But
I
clung
to
my
pathetic
love
affair
with
both
hands
,
so
tight
—
so
tight
that
my
nails
were
white
and
blue
with
their
pressure
against
his
immobility
.
I
made
up
my
mind
not
to
let
go
of
him
,
however
desperate
,
however
hopeless
...
it
was
an
attempt
at
life
.
He
was
all
I
wanted
,
I
could
face
life
beside
him
.
Other
men
had
been
good
enough
to
play
with
,
but
my
stone
figure
—
why
,
I
had
been
looking
for
him
all
my
life
!
But
in
my
dreams
the
stone
figure
was
to
come
wonderfully
to
life
when
I
began
to
worship
it
—
in
actual
life
my
worshipping
could
make
the
stone
figure
do
nothing
more
vital
than
crumble
up
bits
of
bread
in
a
nervous
effort
to
be
honest
with
me
!
I
took
him
at
that
—
I
told
you
I
was
mad
,
did
n't
I
?
—
I
took
him
at
his
own
value
,
for
as
much
as
I
could
get
out
of
him
.
"
I
set
out
to
make
myself
essential
to
him
,
mentally
,
physically
,
every
way
...
.
If
he
could
n't
love
me
as
man
to
woman
,
then
he
would
have
to
love
me
as
a
tree
trunk
loves
the
creepers
round
it
;
I
was
going
to
cling
all
round
him
,
but
without
his
knowing
.
But
I
had
n't
much
time
—
just
a
month
or
perhaps
six
weeks
.
He
was
under
orders
for
Africa
,
where
he
was
going
to
take
up
a
big
administrative
job
,
amazing
work
for
so
young
a
man
;
but
,
then
,
he
was
amazing
.
Just
a
few
weeks
I
had
,
then
,
to
make
him
feel
that
he
could
n't
bear
life
,
in
Africa
or
anywhere
,
without
me
.
And
,
my
dear
!
life
did
n't
hold
a
more
exquisite
dream
than
that
which
brought
a
childish
flush
under
my
rouge
,
the
very
dream
of
dreams
,
of
how
,
a
few
days
before
he
went
,
he
would
take
me
in
his
arms
and
tell
me
that
he
could
n't
bear
to
go
alone
,
and
that
I
must
follow
him
,
and
together
we
would
face
all
the
scandal
that
would
come
of
it
...
.
I
passionately
wanted
the
moment
to
come
when
he
would
offer
to
risk
his
career
for
me
;
I
wanted
him
to
offer
me
his
ambition
,
and
then
I
would
consider
whether
to
give
it
back
to
him
or
not
.
But
he
did
n't
.
I
lost
.
"
And
I
had
seemed
so
like
winning
during
that
six
weeks
between
that
horrible
lunch
and
his
going
away
!
London
love
affairs
are
always
scrappy
,
hole-in-the-corner
things
,
but
we
managed
to
live
together
now
and
again
.
And
then
,
mon
Dieu
!
he
suddenly
clung
to
me
and
said
he
was
n't
seeing
enough
of
me
,
that
London
was
getting
between
us
,
and
that
we
must
go
away
somewhere
into
the
country
for
at
least
a
week
before
he
left
,
to
breathe
and
to
love
...
.
Would
n't
you
have
thought
I
was
winning
?
I
thought
so
,
and
my
dreams
were
no
more
dreams
,
but
actual
,
glorious
certainties
;
he
would
beg
me
on
his
knees
to
follow
him
to
Africa
!
"
We
went
away
ten
days
before
he
sailed
,
to
a
delightful
little
inn
a
few
miles
from
Llangollen
.
Seven
days
we
spent
there
.
Wonderful
,
intimate
days
round
about
that
little
inn
by
the
Welsh
stream
;
we
were
children
playing
under
a
wilderness
of
blue
sky
,
more
blue
than
Italy
's
because
of
the
white
and
grey
puffs
of
clouds
which
make
an
English
sky
more
human
than
any
other
;
and
we
played
with
those
toy
hills
which
are
called
mountains
in
Wales
,
and
we
were
often
silent
because
there
was
too
much
to
talk
about
...
.
And
as
we
sat
silently
facing
each
other
in
the
train
back
to
London
,
I
knew
I
had
won
.
There
were
three
days
left
.
"
In
London
,
he
dropped
me
here
at
my
house
,
and
went
on
to
his
flat
;
he
was
to
come
in
the
evening
to
fetch
me
out
to
dinner
.
But
he
was
back
within
an
hour
.
I
had
to
receive
him
in
a
kimono
.
I
found
him
pacing
up
and
down
this
room
,
at
the
far
end
there
,
by
the
windows
.
He
came
quickly
to
me
,
and
told
me
that
his
orders
had
been
changed
—
he
had
to
go
to
Paris
first
,
spend
two
days
there
,
and
then
to
Africa
via
Marseilles
.
'
To
Paris
?
'
I
said
,
not
understanding
.
'
Yes
,
to-night
—
in
two
hours
,
'
he
said
,
quickly
,
shyly
.
He
was
embarrassed
at
the
idea
of
a
possible
scene
.
But
he
was
cold
.
He
must
go
at
once
,
he
said
.
And
he
looked
eager
to
go
,
to
go
and
be
doing
.
He
shook
both
my
hands
—
I
had
n't
a
word
—
and
almost
forgot
to
kiss
me
.
It
was
just
as
though
nothing
had
ever
happened
between
us
,
as
though
we
had
n't
ever
been
to
Wales
,
or
played
,
and
laughed
,
and
loved
;
as
though
he
had
never
begged
me
to
run
my
fingers
through
his
hair
,
because
I
had
said
his
hair
was
a
garden
where
gold
and
green
flowers
grew
.
He
was
going
away
;
and
he
was
just
as
when
I
had
first
met
him
,
or
at
that
lunch
—
I
had
n't
gained
anything
at
all
,
it
was
all
just
a
funny
,
tragic
,
silly
dream
...
he
had
come
and
now
he
was
going
away
.
He
would
write
to
me
,
he
said
,
and
he
would
be
back
in
sixteen
months
...
.
"
I
'm
not
a
bad
loser
,
you
know
;
I
can
say
such
and
such
a
thing
is
n't
for
me
,
and
then
try
and
undermine
my
wretchedness
with
philosophy
.
But
I
simply
did
n't
exist
for
a
few
months
;
I
just
went
into
my
little
shell
and
stayed
there
,
and
was
miserable
all
to
myself
,
and
not
bitter
at
all
,
because
I
sort
of
understood
him
,
and
knew
he
had
been
true
to
himself
.
It
was
I
who
had
failed
in
trying
to
make
him
false
to
his
own
nature
...
.
But
there
's
a
limit
to
all
things
;
there
comes
a
time
when
one
ca
n't
bear
any
more
gloom
,
and
then
there
is
a
reaction
.
No
one
with
any
courage
can
be
wretched
for
ever
—
anyway
,
I
ca
n't
.
So
,
suddenly
,
after
a
few
months
,
I
went
out
into
the
world
again
,
and
played
and
jumped
about
,
and
made
my
body
so
tired
that
my
mind
had
n't
a
chance
to
think
.
"
His
first
few
letters
were
cold
,
honest
things
,
a
little
pompous
in
their
appreciations
of
me
tacked
on
to
literary
descriptions
of
the
Nile
,
and
the
desert
,
and
the
natives
.
I
wrote
to
him
only
once
,
a
wonderful
letter
,
but
I
had
n't
the
energy
to
write
again
—
what
was
the
good
?
"
At
the
end
of
a
year
I
was
really
in
the
whirl
of
the
great
world
again
.
There
were
a
few
kicks
left
in
Shelmerdene
yet
,
I
told
myself
hardly
,
and
Maurice
became
just
a
tender
memory
.
I
never
thought
of
