You know very well that you took from my easel David Courtlaw’s study of me, and sent it to Cariolus. An early bird clarinetist burst through in a long black skirt, swishing like a bell. He did not explain what had happened to her. If Jack should die, all though her fault, she could never forgive herself. What a frightened fool he was! If he could not remember her name, it was equally possible that already she had forgotten his. It seemed incredible that she and her aunt were, indeed, creatures of the same blood, only by a birth or so different beings, and part of that same broad interlacing stream of human life that has invented the fauns and nymphs, Astarte, Aphrodite, Freya, and all the twining beauty of the gods. Each was draped in transparent silk, dancing, beckoning to me, teasing me. There never is much left for me. But she does not resemble you in any other way. If you don’t think it would be a social outrage, perhaps I might walk with you to your railway station.
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