auty of these relics of
the fairy-cities, of Athens, and Rome, and Alexandria. She had loved
the Greek marbles best. The weird shapes in the Corridor of Pan, the
glorious torso of the Venus Accroupie with the two deep lines in her
side that make her more human and alive than any other Venus, more
divine even than the Milo, faultless in her "serpentining beauty rounds
on rounds," serene and gracious in the shadow of her crimson-hung
alcove.

And Vladimir was wise, for he allowed her to dream, and did not show
her more than he could help of modern Paris.

From there they had gone to Brussels, then to Vienna, and last, and
most beautiful of all, Buda-Pesth, the city among the hills. They had
seen it first of all as Buda-Pesth should be seen, at night, hanging
between earth and sky, and with her million lights sparkling against
the soft darkness of the surrounding hills. Pauline's eyes had never
become satiated with the sight of beautiful things.

Perhaps, as she had told Vladimir, it was her love for him that had
given her this gift of clear-seeing. Without love she might have
allowed herself to be blindfolded as many other women are, by ambition,
or money, or intellect.

CHAPTER XIV

"La vie est vaine,
Un peu d'amour,
Un peu de haine,
Et puis bon jour."

In the process of Arithelli's convalescence, comedy fought for place with
tragedy.

For the first time in her life she felt irritable, and inclined to
grumble, and her racked nerves made the lonely hours appear doubly long
and lonely.

Day after day, each one seemingly more unending than the last, the sun
poured into her room, and the dust and litter accumulated in all four
corners, and she lay and gazed at the hideous meandering pattern of the
stained wall-paper, and the cracks and blistering paint on the door. The
nights were less terrible, for the darkness veiled all sordid details,
and there was a star-lit patch of sky visible through the open window.

The attendance she received could only be described as casual. Neither
Emile nor Maria possessed one idea on the subject of hygiene between
them. The methods of the former were, as might be expected, a little
crude, and Maria combined a similar failing with a vast ignorance.
Moreover, she was not original. At the beginning of Arithelli's illness
pineapple juice had seemed to Maria a happy inspiration, and she
continued to provide it daily. What was good to drink on Sunday, she
ar