“I’ll make a confession. Every word you have said is true. I can’t help it. I can’t help seeking admiration any more than a cat can help going to people to be stroked. It’s my nature. I’m born out of my time. And yet, you know, I’m not a _common_ woman. I like men to adore me—to flatter me—even to make love to me—but I would never give myself to any man. I would never let a man kiss me... even.” “It’s immeasurably worse—you’ve no legitimate excuse. Why, even a prostitute has a greater sense of generosity!” “I know,” she said, “I know perfectly well—but I can’t help the way I’m built.... Are you going?” He put on his gloves. “Well,” he said, “what’s going to happen to us now?” Again she shrugged her shoulders. “I haven’t the slightest idea. I never have—just let things occur.” “All alone?” cried Victor. “Has Max been here?” “He only stayed a moment, and wouldn’t even have tea. I sent him home to change his clothes.... He was frightfully boring.” “You poor darling, your hair’s coming down. I’ll fix it, stand still a moment... so you were bored?” “Um-m—frightfully.... Oh, you’ve run a hairpin right into your wife’s head—you naughty boy!” She flung her arms round his neck and looked up at him, half laughing, like a beautiful, loving child. “God! What a woman you are,” said the man. “You make me so infernally proud—dearest, that I... I tell you!”