with the past which held so many unavenged bad dinners, she never
thought to link it even by a look with her emotions of the present.
Indeed, it had been said of her that in past, present, and future
there had ever been but the one picture to interest her eyes--the
one she was looking at now. This, however, was the remark of the
uninitiated, for the true passion of a beautiful woman is never so
much for her beauty as for its booty; as the passion of a gamester is
for his game, not for his luck.

"How beautiful _she_ was!"

It was apparently down in the depths of his abysm that he found the
connection between this phrase and his last, and it was evidently to
himself he said it. Madame, however, heard and understood too; in
fact, traced back to a certain period, her thoughts and Mr. Horace's
must have been fed by pretty much the same subjects. But she had
so carefully barricaded certain issues in her memory as almost to
obstruct their flow into her life; if she were a cook, one would
say that it was her bad dinners which she was trying to keep out of
remembrance.

"You there, he there, she there, I there." He pointed to the places on
the carpet, under the chandelier; he could have touched them with a
walking-stick, and the recollection seemed just as close.

"She was, in truth, what we men called her then; it was her eyes
that first suggested it--Myosotis, the little blue flower, the
for-get-me-not. It suited her better than her own name. We always
called her that among ourselves. How beautiful she was!" He leaned his
head on his hand and looked where he had seen her last--so long, such