You are your own Heaven and your own Hell, Lucy. He was reaching wearily for some kind of buffer to his harrying conscience. He was full of fabulous stories, not just tales of his own past in Rome but wonderful fables from the mysterious Orient and the ancient Greeks, old jokes and yarns that only he remembered. Mistresses neither deserve consideration nor commiseration. What was it in her heart or mind or soul that went out to this man? Music—was that it? Was he powerless to stir her without the gift? But hadn't he fascinated her by his talk, gentle and winning? Ah, but that had been after he had played for her. I made Hainault’s acquaintance, stood him drinks, lent him money.
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