beyond woman, he possesses the power of detachment, of intermittence.

Once in a lifetime, possibly, under the influence of some sweeping
passion, all the doors are flung wide and the one beloved woman may
enter in. Yet she is wise, with the wisdom of the Sphinx, if she refuses
to go. Let her say to him: "Close all these doors, except that which
bears my name. In that chamber and in that alone, we shall dwell
together." For, with these words, the memories housed in the other
chambers crumble to dust and ashes, blown only by vagrant winds of Fate.

In the heart of a woman there are few chambers and still fewer doors.
Instead of business-like compartments, neatly labelled, there are long,
labyrinthine passages, all opening into one another and inextricably
bound together. To shut out one, or even part of one, requires the
building of a wall, but it takes a long time and the barrier is never
firm.

At a single strain of music, the scent of a flower, or even one glimpse
of a path of moonlight lying fair upon a Summer sea, the barriers
crumble and fall. Through the long corridors the ghosts of the past walk
unforbidden, hindered only by broken promises, dead hopes, and dream-
dust.

Even while the petals of long-dead roses rustle through the winding
passages, where the windows are hung with cobwebs, greyed at last from
iridescence to despairing shadows, a barrier may fall at the sound of a
talismanic name, for the hands of women are small and slow to build and
the hearts of women are tender beyond all words.

Hidden in the centre of the labyrinth is one small secret chamber, and