Slowly she got off her knees, poured out water and bathed her eyes, possessed by this new idea and reflecting on it. Then she went as slowly to her escritoire, unlocked it, sat down, and pulled out a bundle of new quills and several sheets of paper. At these she sat staring a long time. Suddenly she leant forward, and plunging her hand into a recess at the back of the escritoire, drew out a red morocco letter-case stamped with little gold pomegranates up the back, with tiny gold pinks at the corners. Several years ago—and quite without _arrière pensée_—Louis had given her this receptacle, which was divided within into compartments for the months. She opened it; but there was nothing there save, in the division consecrated to January, a few flattened, withered, and brittle dark objects, not very reminiscent of a handful of violets. Lucienne put away the case, selected a quill, drew a sheet of paper towards her, and began. CHAPTER XXXII THE CUP BRIMS OVER “He was first always. Fortune Shone bright in his face. I fought for years; with no effort He conquered the place. We ran: my feet were all bleeding, But he won the race. “My home lay deep in the shadow, His full in the sun. Whatever service he called for It straightway was done. Once I staked all my heart’s treasure: We played—and he won. “Spite of his many successes Men loved him the same; My one pale ray of good fortune Met scoffing and shame. We sinned: and men gave him pity, And me only blame.”