Produced by Suzanne Shell, Mary Meehan and PG Distributed Proofreaders THE PRICE OF THINGS BY ELINOR GLYN 1919 FOREWORD I wrote this book in Paris in the winter of 1917-18--in the midst of bombs, and raids, and death. Everyone was keyed up to a strange pitch, and only primitive instincts seemed to stand out distinctly. Life appeared brutal, and our very fashion of speaking, the words we used, the way we looked at things, was more realistic--coarser--than in times of peace, when civilization can re-assert itself again. This is why the story shocks some readers. I quite understand that it might do so; but I deem it the duty of writers to make a faithful picture of each phase of the era they are living in, that posterity may be correctly informed about things, and get the atmosphere of epochs. The story is, so to speak, rough hewn. But it shows the danger of breaking laws, and interfering with fate--whether the laws be of God or of Man. It is also a psychological study of the instincts of two women, which the strenuous times brought to the surface. "Amaryllis," with all her breeding and gentleness, reacting to nature's call in her fierce fidelity to the father of her child--and "Harietta," becoming in herself the epitome of the age-old prostitute. I advise those who are rebuffed by plain words, and a ruthless analysis of the result of actions, not to read a single page. [Signature: Elinor Glyn] THE PRICE OF THINGS CHAPTER I "If one consciously and deliberately desires happiness on this plane," said the Russian, "one must have sufficient strength of will to banish all thought. The moment that one begins to probe the meaning of things, one has opened Pandora's box and it may be many lives before one discovers hope lying at the bottom of it." "What do you mean by thought? How can one not think?" Amaryllis Ardayre's large grey eyes opened in a puzzled way. She was on her honeymoon in Paris at a party at the Russian Embassy, and until now had accepted things and not speculated about them. She had lived in the country and was as good as gold. She was accepting her honeymoon with her accustomed calm, although it was not causing her any of the thrills which Elsie Goldmore, her school friend, had assured her she should discover therein. Honeymoons! Heavens! But perhaps it was because Sir John was dull. He looked dull, she thought, as he stood there talking to the Ambassador. A fine figure of an Englishman but--yes--dull. The Russian, on the contrary, was not dull. He was huge and ugly and rough-hewn--his eyes were yellowish-green and slanted upwards and his face was frankly Calmuck. But you knew that you were talking to a personality--to one who had probably a number of unknown possibilities about him tucked away somewhere.