excerpts had been printed by
practically every journal of note in Great Britain. It had been
published in full in New York, Paris, Rome, Stockholm, Christiania and
Copenhagen, and had been quoted at great length by the entire Colonial
press. It was extraordinary; revolutionary, but convincing. It appealed
to every man and woman who had loved, lost and doubted; it was written
with conviction and displayed knowledge beyond the compass of ordinary
minds. Touching as it did upon mysteries hitherto veiled from public
ken, it set the civilized world agog, hoping and questioning, studying
the secrets of the Tarot and seeking to divine the hidden significance
of the word of power, _Yod-he-vau-he_.

Flamby, disciple of the Greek sages, could face the truth unflinchingly,
and now she recognised that to endeavour to battle against the memory of
Paul Mario was a waste of energy. But because her pride was lofty and
implacable she avoided meeting him, yet could not avoid following all
that he said and wrote, nor could her pride withhold her from seeking
glimpses of him in places which she knew him to frequent. _Le Monde_
frightened her. It had the authority of conviction based upon knowledge,
and it slew hope in her breast. If nothing was hidden from this
wonderful man, why did he omit to explain the mystery of unrequited
love?

On more than one occasion Flamby had found herself in that part of
Chelsea where Paul's house was situated, and from a discreet distance
she had looked at his lighted windows, and then had gone home to
consider her own folly from a critical point of view. Flamby, the human
Eve, mercilessly taxed by Flamby the philosopher, pleaded guilty to a
charge of personal vanity. Yes, she had dared to think herself
pretty--until she had seen Yvonne Mario. Flamby, the daughter of Michael
Duveen, had defined Yvonne's appearance as "a slap in the face." She no
longer expected any man who had seen Yvonne Mario to display the
slightest interest in little insignificant Flamby Duveen; for Yvonne
possessed the type of beauty which women count irresistible, but which
oddly enough rarely enchains the love of men, which inflames the
imagination without kindling the heart. Thus was the fairness of the
daughter of Icarius, which might not withhold Ulysses from the arms of
Calypso, and of this patrician beauty was Fulvia, whom Antony forgot
when the taunting smiles of Cleopatra set his soul on fire.

That Paul's esteem was diminish