“I know you for a frank and loyal gentleman. . . Adventure—and books? Ah, the books! Haven’t I turned stacks of them over! Haven’t I? . . .” “Yes,” murmured Mills. “That’s what one does.” She put out her hand and laid it lightly on Mills’ sleeve. “Listen, I don’t need to justify myself, but if I had known a single woman in the world, if I had only had the opportunity to observe a single one of them, I would have been perhaps on my guard. But you know I hadn’t. The only woman I had anything to do with was myself, and they say that one can’t know oneself. It never entered my head to be on my guard against his warmth and his terrible obviousness. You and he were the only two, infinitely different, people, who didn’t approach me as if I had been a precious object in a collection, an ivory carving or a piece of Chinese porcelain. That’s why I have kept you in my memory so well. Oh! you were not obvious! As to him—I soon learned to regret I was not some object, some beautiful, carved object of bone or bronze; a rare piece of porcelain, _pâte dure_, not _pâte tendre_. A pretty specimen.” “Rare, yes. Even unique,” said Mills, looking at her steadily with a smile. “But don’t try to depreciate yourself. You were never pretty. You are not pretty. You are worse.” Her narrow eyes had a mischievous gleam. “Do you find such sayings in your books?” she asked. “As a matter of fact I have,” said Mills, with a little laugh, “found this one in a book. It was a woman who said that of herself. A woman far from common, who died some few years ago. She was an actress. A great artist.” “A great! . . . Lucky person! She had that refuge, that garment, while I stand here with nothing to protect me from evil fame; a naked temperament for any wind to blow upon. Yes, greatness in art is a protection. I wonder if there would have been anything in me if I had tried? But Henry Allègre would never let me try. He told me that whatever I could achieve would never be good enough for what I was. The perfection of flattery! Was it that he thought I had not talent of any sort? It’s possible. He would know. I’ve had the idea since that he was jealous. He wasn’t jealous of mankind any more than he was afraid of thieves for his collection; but he may have been jealous of what he could see in me, of some passion that could be aroused. But if so he never repented. I shall never forget his last words. He saw me standing beside his bed, defenceless, symbolic and forlorn, and all he found to say was, ‘Well, I am like that.’”