“The Cafe Royal is,” said Garstin. “There are free women here. Your women of society are for ever waiting on the opinion of what they call their set--God help them! Your Lady Sellingworth, for instance--would she dare, after showing herself as an old woman, to become a young woman again? Not she! Her precious set would laugh at her for it. But Cora, for instance--” He pointed to a table a little way off, at which a woman was sitting alone. “Do you suppose Cora cares one single damn what you, or I, or anyone else thinks of her? She knows we all know exactly what she is, and it makes not a particle of difference to her. She’ll tell you, or anyone else, what her nature is. If you don’t happen to like it, you can go to Hell--for her. That’s a free woman. Look at her face. Why, it’s great, because her life and what she is is written all over it. I’ve painted her, and I’ll paint her again. She’s a human document, not a sentimental Valentine. Waiter! Waiter!” His sonorous bass rolled out, dominating the uproar around him. Miss Van Tuyn looked at the woman he had been speaking of. She was tall, emaciated, high shouldered. Her face was dead white, with brightly painted lips. She had dark and widely dilated eyes which looked hungry, observant and desperate. The steadiness of their miserable gaze was like that of an animal. She was dressed in a perfectly cut coat and skirt with a neat collar and a black tie. Both her elbows were on the table, and her sharp white chin was supported by her hands, on which she wore white gloves sewn with black. Her features were good, and the shape of her small head was beautiful. Her expression was intense, but abstracted. In front of her was a small tumbler half full of a liquid the colour of water. A waiter brought Garstin a gin-and-soda. He mixed drinks in an almost stupefying way, as few men can without apparent ill-effects unless they are Russians. “Cora--a free woman, by God!” he observed, lighting another of his small but deadly cigars.