Paris looms behind—a tragedy of strange recollections—here she emerges Phœnix-like, subtly developed, a flawless woman, beautiful, self-reliant, witty, a woman with the strange gift of making all others beside her seem plain or vulgar. “You can’t imagine,” he said, “what a beastly thing a furtive love affair can be. He was an imaginative young man. He had changed her life dramatically, and she had missed him dreadfully. He leaned back in a low chair, and watched her graceful movements, the play of her white hands as she bent over some wonderful machine. “My friend,” she said, “I have been your pupil for two years.
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