pretended to
half his real strength of character, but I could not have imagined
myself stopping in circumstances more or less distasteful to me until
my wife's whim should release us! I had spoken to no woman for many
months, you must remember, but my landlady and the Professor's trained
nurse, and unflattering though it may sound to the much-desired sex, I
had not been conscious of any special lack, after the first few weeks.

To this day I have never known the name of the street nor the number
of that Paris _appartement_. We were deep in our plans for
mountaineering, and except that I noted the wheezy little lift of Mrs.
Upgrove's letter, I remember literally nothing about that excursion
but the familiar odour of the Paris asphalt, the snapping and cracking
of the Gallic horsewhip, and the smoke of my own cigarette which blew
into my eyes as I threw it away on entering the house.

The late afternoon sun poured into the gay little drawing-room, all
buff and dull rose, in the charming French style, and full of sweet
spring flowers in bowls and square jars of Majolica ware. The height
of the _appartement_ made it delightfully airy and bright, and through
the western windows I glimpsed the feathery tips of the delicate new
green of the trees. A small grand piano stood near an open window and
a gorgeous length of Chinese embroidery on the opposite wall was
reflected in a tall, narrow mirror that doubled the apparent size of
the room and gave a pleasant depth and richness to all the airy
clearness of the spring that seemed to fairly incarnate itself in the
spot and the hour. I have never liked Oriental embroideries since that
day, and the clogging scent of hyacinth is a thing I would take some
trouble to avoid; those sad little spires of violet, pink and white
spell only sorrow to one man, at least: sorrow and memories of pitiful
and unmanly weakness.

For standing by the piano, one hand with its cloudy, flashing sapphire
white among the pale stiff spikes, her deer-like head dark against the
fantastic rose and orange of the embroidered dragons, was Margarita, a
lovely smile curving her lips and the warm light in her deep
slate-coloured eyes burning down, down into my very vitals. In that
one rich, welcome smile all my calm English months melted like wax in
a furnace, and Oxford was a drab dream and Surrey a stupid sick-bay!
As I faced her, the old wound burst and widened, with that torturing
sweet shock that I had relega