And then--she knew Lord Holme; knew what attracted him, what stirred him, what moved him to excitement, what was likely to hold him. She felt sure that he and such men as he yield the homage they would refuse to the angel to the siren. Instead of seeking the angel within herself, therefore, she sought the siren. Instead of striving to develope that part of her which was spiritual, she fixed all her attention upon that part of her which was fleshly, which was physical. She neglected the flame and began to make pretty patterns with the ashes. Robin came to bid her good-bye before leaving London for Rome. The weeping woman was gone. He looked into the hard, white face of a woman who smiled. They talked rather constrainedly for a few minutes. Then suddenly he said: “Once it was a painted window, now it’s an iron shutter.” He got up from his chair and clasped his hands together behind his back. “What on earth do you mean?” she asked, still smiling. “Your face,” he answered. “One could see you obscurely before. One can see nothing now.” “You talk great nonsense, Robin. It’s a good thing you’re going back to Rome.” “At least I shall find the spirit of beauty there,” he said, almost with bitterness. “Over here it is treated as if it were Jezebel. It’s trodden down. It’s thrown to the dogs.” “Poor spirit!” She laughed lightly. “Do you understand what they’re saying of you?” he went on. “Where?” “All over London.” “Perhaps.” “But--do you?” “Perhaps I don’t care to.” “They’re saying--‘Poor thing! But it’s her own fault.’” There was a silence. In it he looked at her hard, mercilessly. She returned his gaze, still smiling. “And it is your own fault,” he went on after a moment. “If you had been yourself she couldn’t have insulted you first and humiliated you afterwards. Oh, how I hate it! And yet--yet there are moments when I am like the others, when I feel--‘She has deserved it.’” “When will you be in Rome?” she said. “And even now,” he continued, ignoring her remark, “even now, what are you doing? Oh, Viola, you’re a prey to the modern madness for crawling in the dirt instead of walking upright in the sun. You might be a goddess and you prefer to be an insect. Isn’t it mad of you? Isn’t it?” He was really excited, really passionate. His face showed that. There was fire in his eyes. His lips worked convulsively when he was not speaking. And yet there was just a faint ring of the accomplished orator’s music in his voice, a music which suggests a listening ear--and that ear the orator’s own. Perhaps she heard it. At any rate his passionate attack did not seem to move her. “I prefer to be what I am,” was all she said. “What you are! But you don’t know what you are.” “And how can you pretend to know?” she asked. “Is a man more subtle about a woman than she is about herself?” He did not answer for a moment. Then he said bluntly: “Promise me one thing before I go away.” “I don’t know. What is it?” “Promise me not to--not to--”