of his own spiritual lassitude and
declared that no good could come of an interview, for he no longer
sought happiness on earth.

"I will add that I am in poor health. That is always a good one, and it
excuses a man from 'being a man' if necessary," he said to himself,
rolling a cigarette.

"Well, that's done, and she won't get much encouragement out of it. Oh,
wait. I omitted something. To keep from giving her a hold on me I shall
do well to let her know that a serious and sustained liaison with me is
impossible 'for family reasons.' And that's enough for one time."

He folded the letter and scrawled the address.

Then he held the sealed envelope in his hand and reflected.

"Of course I am a fool to answer her. Who knows what situations a thing
like this is going to lead to? I am well aware that whoever she be, a
woman is an incubator of sorrow and annoyance. If she is good she is
probably stupid, or perhaps she is an invalid, or perhaps she is so
disastrously fecund that she gets pregnant if you look at her. If she is
bad, one may expect to be dragged through every disgusting kind of
degradation. Oh, whatever you do, you're in for it."

He regurgitated the memories of his youthful amours. Deception.
Disenchantment. How pitilessly base a woman is while she is young!

" ... To be thinking of things like that now at my age! As if I had any
need of a woman now!"

But in spite of all, his pseudonymous correspondent interested him.

"Who knows? Perhaps she is good-looking, or at least not very
ill-looking. It doesn't cost me anything to find out."

He re-read her letter. No misspelling. The handwriting not commercial.
Her ideas about his book were mediocre enough, but who would expect her
to be a critic? "Discreet scent of heliotrope," he added, sniffing the
envelope.

"Oh, well, let's have our little fling."

And as he went out to get some breakfast he left his reply with the
concierge.

CHAPTER VII

"If this continues I shall lose my mind," murmured Durtal as he sat in
front of his table reperusing the letters which he had been receiving
from that woman for the last week. She was an indefatigable
letter-writer, and since she had begun her advances he had not had time
to answer one letter before another arrived.

"My!" he said, "let's try and see just where we do stand. After that
ungracious answer to her first note she immediately sends me this:

"'Monsieur,

"'This is a farewell. If