There was in and around and about the lithe beauty of the dark slender young woman, Gabrielle Solignac, much of her own strange uncanny poetry, with its stealthy Eastern manner--catlike when she moved, glowing in colour as a ranging leopard, her clinging draperies loading the air with scent of sandal-wood and the fragrance of Japan--catlike when at rest, and warm-hued and alertly languid as the Indies, her skin now showing saffron as dyed wood, now gleaming white as cunningly wrought ivory. She was mystic always as some half-revealed god in the great shadow of the deep hollows of pagan temples--silent and calm as Egyptian Sphinx. Her exquisite fame had passed beyond Paris, and was broadcast over Europe; yet she was little more than girl.... She had been married to Myre a month; and as she now lay on her side at full length along the great Eastern lounge, her dark head on her father’s knees where he sat at the end of the lounge, there was something of leopard grace in her attitude; and in the long half-closed green eyes, something of leopard’s latent fire. Solignac, his great head bowed, chin sunk on chest, lay back on the lounge, his eyes staring out from the black shadows of their deep hollows under the heavy brows; and he passed his shapely nervous hand over the girl’s tawny hair. “It only seems but yesterday,” said he hoarsely, “that he praised my sonnets--and I brought him here.” He laughed bitterly. “I brought him here. Think of it, my Gabrielle; had he not praised my verse I had never----” “Hush, father!” said she. “It seems but yesterday that you married him--and went out and left me alone----” “Father,” said she, “I am so glad to be back. It was horrible--to be a woman. I am so glad to be a child again.” The old man laughed: “I have gained,” he said--“and, by God, I am almost glad he is a villain.” She put up her arms, pulled down his great head, and kissed his cheek: “I have done with him,” she said. “To think that I am amongst the greatest European authorities upon the mysteries of the East! and all to be juggled out of my wits by the first vulgar sycophant who sings my praise!... Ye pagan gods! how little wisdom is in books!” She reached up her slender hand and put her fingers upon his mouth: “Hush!” said she--“let us back to our books and rejoice in our lack of wisdom. We were happier with our curios and the mysteries.... I am done with him.” And all about them the little fat Eastern idols sadly smiled and smiled.... The poet never recovered from the blow. He felt that through his conceit alone his girl had been bought. He would harp upon it sadly. She laughed always her soft low laugh at all his self-blame, purring of her love for him. But Solignac was a disillusioned man--thought the world wagged chins at him--lost heart--stooped beneath the secret shame of the blow. The blunder about his girl’s marriage killed him....