also more than
once frustrated her designs. This time frustration was not possible.
She was about to revenge the infliction of that little scar! And, at
the same time the intellectual part of her was agreeably intrigued,
trying to disentangle the why and wherefore of Richard's late action
and utterances. While self-love was gratified to the highest height of
its ambition by the knowledge that not only in his heart had she long
reigned, but that he had dedicated time and wealth and refined
ingenuity to the idea of her, to her worship, to the making of this,
her former dwelling-place, into a temple for her honour, a splendid
witness to her victorious charm, a shrine not unfitting to contain the
idol of his imagination.

For a little space she rested in all this, savouring the sweetness of
it as some odour of costly sacrifice. For whatever her sins and lapses,
Helen de Vallorbes had the fine aesthetic appreciations, as well as the
inevitable animality, of the great courtesan. The artist was at least
as present in her as the whore. And it was not, therefore, until
realisation of her present felicity was complete, until it had soaked
into her, so to speak, to the extent of a delicious familiarity, that
she was disposed to seek change of posture or of place. Then, at last,
softly, languidly, for indeed she was somewhat spent by the manifold
emotions of the day, she rose and followed Richard into the starless,
low-lying night. Her first words were very simple, yet to herself
charged with far-reaching meaning--as a little key may give access to a
treasure-chest containing riches of fabulous worth.

"Richard, is it really true, that which you have told me?"

"What conceivable object could I have in lying?"

"Then why have you delayed?--why wasted the precious days--the precious
months and years, if it comes to that?"

"How in honour and decency could I do otherwise--circumstances being
such as they are, I being that which I am?"

The two voices were in notable contrast. Both were low, both were
penetrated by feeling. But the man's was hoarse and rasping, the
woman's smooth and soft as milk.

"Ah! it is the old story!" she said. "Will you never comprehend,
Dickie, that what is to you hateful in yourself, may to some one else
be the last word of attraction, of seduction, even?"

"God forbid I should ever comprehend that!" he answered. "When I take
to glorying in my shame, pluming myself upon my abnormality, then,
indeed,