‘You poor little woman!’ she said pityingly, ‘What a mistake you have made of it! You fancied that out of all the world of men you had won for yourself a hero,—a man whose nature was noble, whose disposition was chivalrous, whose tenderness and truth were never to be doubted! A protector and defender who, had anyone presumed to slander you, would have struck the liar across the mouth and made him answer for his insolence. Instead of this wonderful Marc Antony or Theseus of your imagination, what have you got? Don’t be afraid, poor Delicia! I see your mouth trembling and your eyes filling with foolish tears—now that’s all nonsense, you know! You must not shrink from the truth, my dear; and if God has chosen to take up your beautiful idol and break it in your sight, you must not begin to argue about it, or try to pick up the pieces and tell God He is wrong. Courage, Delicia! Face it out! What did you think you had won for a sure certainty out of all the flitting pageant of this world’s illusions? A true heart,—a faithful lover,—and, as before said, a kind of Theseus in looks and bravery! But even Theseus deserted Ariadne, and in this case your hero has deserted you. Only what you have to realise, you deluded creature, is this—that he is not a hero at all—that he never was a hero! That is the hardest part, isn’t it? To think that the god you have worshipped is no more than an “officer and gentleman,” as a great many “officers and gentlemen” go, who lives comfortably on your earnings, and spends the surplus money on the race-course, music-halls and—La Marina! Put off your rose-coloured spectacles, my dear, and look at him as he is. Don’t be a little coward about it! Yes, I know what you are saying over and over again in your own heart; it is the old story, “I loved him, oh, I loved him!” like the burden of a sentimental song. Of course you loved him—-how deeply,—how passionately,—how dearly,—you will never, never be able to express, even to yourself.’ Here, in spite of her remonstrances to her own image in the glass, the tears brimmed over and fell. ‘There, of course I suppose you must cry a little; you can’t help it,—you have been so thoroughly deceived, and the disillusion is so complete, you poor, poor little woman!’ And, moved by a quaint compassion for herself, she leant forward and kissed the reflection of her own quivering lips in the mirror.