“You know I am ready at the end of a year to give you my hand, if you prove to be the man I am seeking,” Wanda replied very seriously, “but I think you would be more grateful to me if through me you realized your imaginings. Well, which do you prefer?” “I believe that everything my imagination has dreamed lies latent in your personality.” “You are mistaken.” “I believe,” I continued, “that you enjoy having a man wholly in your power, torturing him—” “No, no,” she exclaimed quickly, “or perhaps—.” She pondered. “I don’t understand myself any longer,” she continued, “but I have a confession to make to you. You have corrupted my imagination and inflamed my blood. I am beginning to like the things you speak of. The enthusiasm with which you speak of a Pompadour, a Catherine the Second, and all the other selfish, frivolous, cruel women, carries me away and takes hold of my soul. It urges me on to become like those women, who in spite of their vileness were slavishly adored during their lifetime and still exert a miraculous power from their graves. “You will end by making of me a despot in miniature, a domestic Pompadour.” “Well then,” I said in agitation, “if all this is inherent in you, give way to this trend of your nature. Nothing half-way. If you can’t be a true and loyal wife to me, be a demon.” I was nervous from loss of sleep, and the proximity of the beautiful woman affected me like a fever. I no longer recall what I said, but I remember that I kissed her feet, and finally raised her foot and put my neck under it. She withdrew it quickly, and rose almost angrily. “If you love me, Severin,” she said quickly, and her voice sounded sharp and commanding, “never speak to me of those things again. Understand, never! Otherwise I might really—” She smiled and sat down again. “I am entirely serious,” I exclaimed, half-raving. “I adore you so infinitely that I am willing to suffer anything from you, for the sake of spending my whole life near you.” “Severin, once more I warn you.” “Your warning is vain. Do with me what you will, as long as you don’t drive me away.” “Severin,” replied Wanda, “I am a frivolous young woman; it is dangerous for you to put yourself so completely in my power. You will end by actually becoming a plaything to me. Who will give warrant that I shall not abuse your insane desire?” “Your own nobility of character.” “Power makes people over-bearing.” “Be it,” I cried, “tread me underfoot.” Wanda threw her arms around my neck, looked into my eyes, and shook her head. “I am afraid I can’t, but I will try, for your sake, for I love you Severin, as I have loved no other man.” * * * * * To-day she suddenly took her hat and shawl, and I had to go shopping with her. She looked at whips, long whips with a short handle, the kind that are used on dogs. “Are these satisfactory?” said the shopkeeper. “No, they are much too small,” replied Wanda, with a side-glance at me. “I need a large—”