A lady? She had seen enough to smile at that. She knew that she hadn't
it in her veins, that she was very much an actress, except in this man's
company, when she was mostly natural--as natural as one can be who
has a painful secret. They had talked together--for how many hours?
She knew exactly. And he had never descended to that which--she felt
instinctively--he would not have shown to the ladies of his English
world. She knew what ladies were. In her first few weeks in Paris,
her fame mounting, she had lunched with some distinguished people, who
entertained her as they would have done one of her lions, if that were
possible. She understood. She had a proud, passionate nature; she
rebelled at this. Invitations were declined at first on pink note-paper
with gaudy flowers in a corner, afterwards on cream-laid vellum, when she
saw what the great folk did.

And so the days went on, he telling her of his life from his boyhood up
--all but the one thing! But that one thing she came to know, partly by
instinct, partly by something he accidentally dropped, partly from
something Jacques once said to him. Well, what did it matter to her?
He would go back; she would remain. It didn't matter.--Yet, why should
she lie to herself? It did matter. And why should she care about that
girl in England? She was not supposed to know. The other had everything
in her favour; what had Andree the gipsy girl, or Mademoiselle Victorine,
the dompteuse?

One Sunday evening, after dining together, she asked him to take her to
see Saracen. It was a long-standing promise. She had never seen him
riding; for their hours did not coincide until the late afternoon or
evening. Taking Annette, they went to his new apartments. He had
furnished a large studio as a sitting-room, not luxuriantly but