She still trod the earth like a queen, but her outline was detestable. Only hopelessness bears and attires itself thus. He calculated. She must be thirty-six. Thirteen years ago he had known her and--loved her? Perhaps.... At least he had left her the evening before their formal betrothal was to take place because her father had dared to remark upon his way of life. He loved his personal liberty more than his beautiful and wealthy betrothed who clung to him with every fibre of her delicate and noble soul. One word from her, had it been but a word of farewell, would have recalled him. That word remained unspoken. Thus her life's happiness had been wrecked. Perhaps his, too. What did it matter? Since then he had nothing but contempt for the daughters of good families. Other women were less exacting; they did not attempt to circumscribe his freedom. He gazed after her long. Now groups of other pedestrians intervened; now her form reappeared sharp and narrow against the trees. From time to time she stooped lovingly toward the old lady, who, as is the wont of aged people, trod eagerly and fearfully. This fragile heap of bones, with the dull eyes and the sharp voice--he remembered the voice well: it had had part in his decision. This strange, unsympathetic, suspicious old woman, he would have had to call "Mother." What madness! What hypocrisy! And yet his hunger for happiness, which had not yet died, reminded him of all that might have been. A sea of warm, tender and unselfish love would have flooded him and fructified and vivified the desert of his soul. And instead of becoming withered and embittered, she would have blossomed at his side more richly from day to day. Now it was too late. A long, thin, wretched little creature--she went her way and was soon lost in the distance. But there clung to his soul the yearning for a woman--one who had more of womanliness than its name and its body, more than the harlot whom he kept because he was too slothful to drive her from him. He sought the depths of his memory. His life had been rich in gallant adventures. Many a full-blooded young woman had thrown herself at him, and had again vanished from his life under the compulsion of his growing coldness. He loved his liberty. Even an unlawful relation felt like a fetter so soon as it demanded any sacrifice of time or interests. Also, he did not like to give less than he received. For, since the passing of his unscrupulous youth, he had not cared to receive the gift of a human destiny only to throw it aside as his whim demanded. And therefore his life had grown quiet during the last few years. He thought of one of his last loves ... the very last ... and smiled. The image of a delicately plump brunette little woman, with dreamy eyes and delicious little curls around her ears, rose up before him. She dwelt in his memory as she had seemed to him: modest, soulful, all ecstatic yielding and charming simple-heartedness.