“There,” she said, leaning back, “you can now gaze upon a horrible example to the young women of to-day. You can see the ravages which late hours, innumerable cocktails, a thirst for excitement, a contempt of the simple pleasures of life, have worked upon my once comely features. I was quite good-looking, you know, in the days you first knew me.” “You were the most beautiful debutante of your season,” he agreed. “What do you think of me now?” she asked. She met his gaze without flinching. Her face was unnaturally thin, with disfiguring hollows underneath her cheekbones; her lips lacked colour; even her eyes were lustreless. Her hair seemed to lack brilliancy. Only her silken eyebrows remained unimpaired, and a certain charm of expression which nothing seemed able to destroy. “You look tired,” he said. “Be honest, my dear man,” she rejoined drily. “I am a physical wreck, dependent upon cosmetics for the looks which I am still clever enough to palm off on the uninitiated.” “Why don't you lead a quieter life?” he asked. “A month or so in the country would put you all right.” She laughed a little hardly. Then for a moment she looked at him appraisingly. “I was going to speak to you of nerves,” she said, “but how would you ever understand? You look as though you had not a nerve in your body. I can't think how you manage it, living in London. I suppose you do exercises and take care of what you eat and drink.” “I do nothing of the sort,” he assured her indignantly. “I eat and drink whatever I fancy. I have always had a direct object in life--my work--and I believe that has kept me fit and well. Nerve troubles come as a rule, I think, from the under-used brain.” “I must have been born with a butterfly disposition,” she said. “I am quite sure that mine come because I find it so hard to be amused. I am sure I am most enterprising. I try whatever comes along, but nothing satisfies me.” “Why not try being in love with one of these men who've been in love with you all their lives?” She laughed bitterly. “The men who have cared for me and have been worth caring about,” she said, “gave me up years ago. I mocked at them when they were in earnest, scoffed at sentiment, and told them frankly that when I married it would only be to find a refuge for broader life. The right sort wouldn't have anything to say to me after that, and I do not blame them. And here is the torture of it. I can't stand the wrong sort near me--physically, I mean. Mind, I believe I'm attracted towards people with criminal tastes and propensities. I believe that is what first led me towards Sir Timothy. Every taste I ever had in life seems to have become besmirched. I'm all the time full of the craving to do horrible things, but all the same I can't bear to be touched. That's the torment of it. I wonder if you can understand?”