the tears which puckered it. I made a nest for her in my arms, but she fluttered free out into the orange orchards and so to the house. All day I wandered about sore and sulky. At night I tried to see her, and was informed she was ill. On the morrow I was startled to find she had gone with her friends by the early train." [Pg 20] [Pg 21] "And did you not hear from her?" "Yes, she left a letter behind; I should like to show it you—to see what you make of it." He rose and from his bureau extracted a note; then he resumed his seat and tossed me the almost illegible scrawl:— Dear Lionel,—All this time I have been too blessed—too supremely happy to face the truth. You do not know my real name nor my grievous history, and the more I love and honour you the harder becomes the revelation. I can endure it no more—so good-bye. Dear Lionel "And was that all?" "Absolutely. I pressed the pansy in the[Pg 22] poem, and vowed—such vows are cheap—never to trust a woman again. But, after all, what claim have we to view our love as a priceless gift when we invariably demand cent. per cent. in kind? I have argued this out with myself, and realise that I was her debtor, I was first an artist whom she had patronised and then—a man whom she had——" [Pg 22] "Well?" "I was going to say—ennobled. Don't you think there are some women who, by power of faith, transmute even clay-footed idols into gold?" I shook my head and prepared to turn over the leaf, but he made as though to remove the book. "That last one is a marguerite. It tells a very bald narrative—just a common instance of man's blockheadedness and Fate's topsy-turvydom." Bentham threw aside his cigarette and closed his eyes. He was looking worn and old. "I think I have told you all," he continued presently, "except about these petals. They[Pg 23] were gathered from the ground as her fingers shredded them to discover whether I loved her passionement or pas du tout." [Pg 23]
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