pprochement. Was Eugene truly the one man with whom she
could have been happy? Was he not too adoring, too headstrong, too
foolish and mistaken in his calculations? Was he the able person she had
really fancied him to be? Would she not have come to dislike him--to
hate him even--in a short space of time? Could they have been truly,
permanently happy? Would she not be more interested in one who was
sharp, defiant, indifferent--one whom she could be compelled to adore
and fight for rather than one who was constantly adoring her and needing
her sympathy? A strong, solid, courageous man--was not such a one her
ideal, after all? And could Eugene be said to be that? These and other
questions tormented her constantly.

It is strange, but life is constantly presenting these pathetic
paradoxes--these astounding blunders which temperament and blood moods
bring about and reason and circumstance and convention condemn. The
dreams of man are one thing--his capacity to realize them another. At
either pole are the accidents of supreme failure and supreme
success--the supreme failure of an Abelard for instance, the supreme
success of a Napoleon, enthroned at Paris. But, oh, the endless failures
for one success.

But in this instance it cannot be said that Suzanne had definitely
concluded that she did not love him. Far from it. Although the cleverest
devices were resorted to by Mrs. Dale to bring her into contact with
younger and to her--now--more interesting personalities, Suzanne--very
much of an introspective dreamer and quiet spectator herself, was not to
be swiftly deluded by love again--if she had been deluded. She had half
decided to study men from now on, and use them, if need be, waiting for
the time when some act, of Eugene's, perhaps, or some other personality,
might decide for her. The strange, destructive spell of her beauty began
to interest her, for now she knew that she really was beautiful. She
looked in her mirror very frequently now--at the artistry of a curl, the
curve of her chin, her cheek, her arm. If ever she went back to Eugene
how well she would repay him for his agony. But would she? Could she?
Would he have not recovered his sanity and be able to snap his fingers
in her face and smile superciliously? For, after all, no doubt he was a
wonderful man and would shine as something somewhere soon again. And
when he did--what would he think of her--her silence, her desertion, her
moral cowardice?

"After all, I a