and _la mióla_ snaps her fingers gaily and trills her _r's_; and the Corcovado is outlined clearly on the purple background as if bending to listen; and the palms and the mosque-like buildings, and the fair islets bathed in the witchery of moonlight, and the star-gems twinned in the lap of the bay, intoxicate as a dream of the East. "Je suis le vr-r-rai pompier, Le seul pompier...." What in the world is a _pompier_? What connection has the word with this creature who is murdering, deliberately murdering, a delicate creation of my brain, begotten by the fusion of country and town? "Je suis le vr-r-rai pompier,..." I am convinced _pompier_ expresses her in some subtle way--absurd word! I look back at her, I criticise her, I anathematise her, I _hate_ her! What is she hurrying for? We can't escape her--always we stop and let her overtake us with her elbowing gait, and tight skirt shortened to show her great splay feet--ugh! My brain is void, all is dark within; the flowers are faded, the music stilled; the lovely illusive little being has flown, and yet she pounds along untiringly. Is she a feminine presentment of the wandering Jew, a living embodiment of the ghoul-like spirit that haunts the city and murders fancy? What business had she, I ask, to come and thrust her white-handled umbrella into the delicate network of my nerves and untune their harmony? Does she realise what she has done? She has trampled a rare little mind-being unto death, destroyed a precious literary gem. Aye, one that, for aught I know, might have worked a revolution in modern thought; added a new human document to the archives of man; been the keystone to psychic investigations; solved problems that lurk in the depths of our natures and tantalise us with elusive gleams of truth; heralded in, perchance, the new era; when such simple problems as Home Rule, Bimetallism, or the Woman Question will be mere themes for schoolboard compositions--who can tell? Well, it was not my fault.--No one regrets it more, no one--but what could I do? Blame her, woman of the great feet and dominating gait, and waving umbrella-handle!--blame her! I can only regret it--regret it! Portrait of a Lady By Charles W. Furse _Reproduced by the Swan Electric Engraving Company_ [Illustration: Portrait of a Lady] Reticence in Literature By Arthur Waugh