Indeed, Mr. Myre was thrilled at a far more emotional prospect than any view of a Thames reach. For days the newspapers had been quarrelling over him--his name was everywhere. Worry, worry, worry! and in the midst of the din was always Quilliam O’Flaherty Macloughlin Myre. He had struck a master-stroke.... Quogge Myre had become weary of his scandal. The novelty of his relation to Marguerite Olmé was flown. He was not even barred. People treated it as carelessly as though it had been marriage. Nay, worse; society was grown tired of it--he was not asked out so much as he had been. He could see nothing more to be got out of the romantic association; he had had a splendid flash of life with her, the glamour that still remained was but the after-glow---- And the stage notoriously aged women! He was no weakling to dawdle on in the twilight of a romance, kicking his feet aimlessly through the fallen leaves of a withered passion. He saw that he must do something original--or with an original air. He had conceived a bold scheme for a renewal of public interest in him and his works. He had given to the world a recklessly daring account of his most intimate relations with the great actress, thinly disguised as a romance--indeed, he had forestalled all misunderstanding, had drawn aside all shred of disguise, by inspiring preliminary paragraphs in the press. The result went beyond his wildest hopes; raised him beyond his fondest conceit. The clamour was prodigious; indeed, it did the English press credit, for it displayed a lurking sense of decency, a hint of manhood in the shabbiest. The abuse brought this man to the front again; and the curiosity of smart society was again assured towards him. And it would do more--it would make a dramatic end to his life with the great actress. He had revealed all the secrets of her dressing-table, the little makeshifts of figure, the use of additions to Nature’s artistic handicraft. It had only been fair to himself; for she had begun to be tedious--a bore--humiliation. To sit opposite to the same woman at table day after day! It cramped his imagination. There were two or three other women--it might make a difference if he were not tied to this one--he had only made one mistake--he ought to have cleared off the whole of his debts before he published the book--but---- His man came in. Yes, he would dress for dinner. But he had accepted two invitations for that night--to which of these handsome women must he send the telegram of his inability to go? He decided to dine with the countess. Quogge Myre adored the “intelligent” peerage. In her rooms in Paris sat Marguerite Olmé, reading a book. She had been reading it all day--and the red blood burned her face with shame. She missed no word of the brutal details of her most intimate life with this man--there was little reservation, even by innuendo.