“Society never pardoned me,” she thought, “my genius and fame, and when passion enslaved me and my back was turned, the cruel jade stabbed me in a fatal spot. I thought I could offer defiance to custom’s rigid rule. I dreamed I was a queen, to whom the world owed obedience. I awoke, and found I was a woman, strong only in passionate devotion. Yet, could I turn back the hand of time, I would not change. Eternal poverty, exposure, shame, disgrace with him, is better than Paradise without. I have had pointed at me the finger of scorn, and yet upon his aching breast, I have found a consolation so deep and sweet, that it gave oblivion to the taunts without.” Her reverie was disturbed by a knock at the door. “Come in,” she said. Doane entered. “Ah,” said he, placing his glass to his eye, “can it be? Do my eyes deceive me? Ouida Angelo!” “Yes,” she said, “and what can you want with me?” “You surely believe me,” he said, in exquisite irony, “when I tell you that I did not expect to find you here?” “Then,” said she coldly, “you will have no objection to making your stay as brief as possible. You see, I am not in a position to properly entertain so distinguished a visitor.” “Oh, don’t let that worry you,” said he, with cool impudence. “I’ll take a seat; you don’t mind, do you?” “I have no way of relieving myself of your presence,” said Ouida, “save by invitation, as this is the only apartment at my disposal. I presume I shall be compelled to hear what you have to say.” “I was seeking curios,” said Doane, whose malicious smile revealed the fact that he was lying, “and a neighbor of yours informed me that a lady, once proud and rich, had a very fine piece of statuary for sale. I called to see it, not knowing who the owner might be, and was dumbfounded to find it was you!” “Mistaken, sir, as you usually are,” said Ouida, “mistaken in all your facts. There is no lady here; only a woman of sorrow, one acquainted with much grief. I have nothing to sell, or give away.” “I see a marble figure there,” said he, pointing to the one work of art that lent radiance and dignity, even to that humble abode. “Is that your work?” “Yes,” was the curt reply. “What is it?” he said. “I will not tell you.” “I know, so you might as well.” “If you know,” she said, “then there is no necessity for me to give you any information.” “Let’s throw deception to the winds,” said he, unmasking himself. “It is ‘The Modern Hercules.’ I came to buy it of you.” “It is not for sale.” “Not for sale!” he said, “when the price I’d pay for it would enable you to hold up your head in the world again?” “Sir,” said she, filled to the quick with indignation, “I want neither your gold, sarcasm, advice nor presence.” “A little of each would do you good.” “You are a coward, sir,” the woman flashed out, “to say things to me here that you would not have dared to utter when wealth, power, position, all were mine.”