me fault or lack which seemed wilful
perversity, like the work of an evil sprite. It was like a case of
jeweller's wares set before you, with each ring unfinished, each
bracelet too large or too small for its purpose, each breastpin without
its fastening, each necklace purposely broken. I turned the pages,
marvelling. When about half an hour had passed, and I was leaning back
for a moment to light another cigar, I glanced toward my visitor. She
was behind me, in an easy-chair before my small fire, and she was--fast
asleep! In the relaxation of her unconsciousness I was struck anew by
the poverty her appearance expressed; her feet were visible, and I saw
the miserable worn old shoes which hitherto she had kept concealed.

After looking at her for a moment I returned to my task and took up the
prose story; in prose she must be more reasonable. She was less
fantastic perhaps, but hardly more reasonable. The story was that of a
profligate and commonplace man forced by two of his friends, in order
not to break the heart of a dying girl who loves him, to live up to a
high imaginary ideal of himself which her pure but mistaken mind has
formed. He has a handsome face and sweet voice, and repeats what they
tell him. Her long, slow decline and happy death, and his own inward
ennui and profound weariness of the role he has to play, made the vivid
points of the story. So far, well enough, but here was the trouble:
through the whole narrative moved another character, a physician of
tender heart and exquisite mercy, who practised murder as a fine art,
and was regarded (by the author) as a second Messiah! This was
monstrous. I read it through twice, and threw it down; then, fatigued,
I turned round and leaned back, waiting for her to wake. I could see
her profile against the dark hue of the easy-chair.

Presently she seemed to feel my gaze, for she stirred, then opened her
eyes. "I have been asleep," she said, rising hurriedly.

"No harm in that, Aaronna."

But she was deeply embarrassed and troubled, much more so than the
occasion required; so much so, indeed, that I turned the conversation
back upon the manuscripts as a diversion. "I cannot stand that doctor
of yours," I said, indicating the prose story; "no one would. You must
cut him out."

Her self-possession returned as if by magic. "Certainly not," she
answered haughtily.

"Oh, if you do not care--I had labored under the impression that you
were anxious these things shou