far-off like a jeering echo:

"I'm Gyp Labelle;
If you dance with me
You dance to my tune. . ."

A danse macabre. He wondered if she had brains or heart enough to
appreciate the full bitterness of that chance. He could see her, in
his mind's eye, cowering back among the pale-blue cushions.

The next morning he received a note from her and a ticket for the first
night of "Mademoiselle Pantalonne"--"with her regards and thanks."

3

He went. In the morning he had tossed the ticket aside, scornful and
outraged by such a poor gesture of bravado. But the night brought the
old restlessness. He was driven by curiosity that he believed was
professional and impersonal. It was natural enough that he should want
to see how a woman of her stuff acted under sentence of death. But
once in the theatre h e became aware of a black and solitary pride
because he alone of all these people could taste the full flavour of
her performance. He had become omniscient. He saw behind the scenes.
Whilst the orchestra played its jaunty overture he watched her. He saw
her stare into her glass and dab on the paint, thicker and thicker,
knowing now why she needed so much more, shrinking from the skull that
was beginning to peer through the thin mask of flesh and blood. He
foresaw the moment, probably before the footlights, when the naked
horror of it all would leap out on her and tear her down. Even in that
she would no doubt seek the consolation of notoriety. It would be in
all the papers. If she had the nerve to carry on people would crowd to
see her, as in the Roman days they had crowded to the circus (gloating
and stroking themselves secretly, thinking: "It is not I who am
dying"). Or she would seek dramatic refuge in her absurd palace and
surround herself with tragic glamour, making use of her own death as
she had used the death of that infatuated and unhappy prince.

And yet he was sick at heart. In flashes he saw his own attitude as
something hideous and abnormal. Then again he justified it, as he had
always justified it. He found himself arguing the whole matter out
with Francey Wilmot--a cool and reasoned exposition such as he had been
incapable of at the crisis of their relationship. ("This woman is a
malignant growth. Nature destroys her. Do you pretend to feel regret
or pity?") But though he imagined the whole scene--saw himself as
authoritative and convincing--he could not re-create Francey Wilmot.