for her! To yearn for that which
perhaps did not exist at all, which most assuredly did not exist
for her! What a "rheumatism of thought" that would be! Her head,
with a Japanese knot of fiery hair on the top of it, bent down
low, for the stream of lead from her heart was rising. With a
movement usual to her she clasped her long hands, and, squeezing
them violently, thought:

"Well, what of it? I must in every case create some future, and
why should any other be better than this one? Here at least is
sincerity on both sides, and a just view of things."

As time passed she said to herself that what she felt for the
baron was love of a certain kind, and that at the foundation of
things there is no other love, and if there is any other kind it
does not signify much, for each kind passes quickly. She began in
general to attach less and less weight to that side of life, and
also life itself had for her a charm which was continually
decreasing. In the gloom of weariness, and the apathy into which
she was falling, that which connected her with the baron was like
a red electric lantern shining on a throng in the street and in
the darkness. It was not the bright sun, nor the silvery moon; it
was just that red lantern which, shining on a throng in the
street, enabled one to see many curious or brilliant objects.

She knew of Lili Kerth, and the role which she played as to the
world in general and the baron in particular. The baron in that
case, as in others, wore no mask; sometimes he accompanied Lili
Kerth to public promenades, and sometimes even showed himself
with her in a box at the theatre. That was in contradiction with
morals, especially in view of his relation with Irene; but
subjection to morals, would not that be standing guard over
graves, or the "darned sock?"

In this case Maryan, without knowing why, did not applaud his
friend.

"C'est crane, mais trop cochon," judged he, and he pouted a
little at the baron, but looked with curiosity at his sister,
also present in the theatre. Irene sat in her box as usual, calm
and full of distinction, a little formal, never charmed with
anything, or laughing at anything. As usual she conversed with
the baron between acts, till Maryan, looking at her, sneered, and
asked:

"How did your vis-a-vis please you?"

"Qui cette fille?" asked Irene, carelessly. "The color of her
hair is superb. Pure Venetian gold."

No feeling of offence, or modesty.

"Bravo!" said Maryan. An