He is a man who is like a woman; he knows that he is beautiful, and he acts accordingly. He changes his clothes four or five times a day, like a vain courtesan. In Paris he appeared first in woman’s dress, and the men assailed him with love-letters. An Italian singer, famous equally for his art and his passionate intensity, even invaded his home, and lying on his knees before him threatened to commit suicide if he wouldn’t be his. “I am sorry,” he replied, smiling, “I should like to do you the favor, but you will have to carry out your threat, for I am a man.” * * * * * The drawing-room has already thinned out to a marked degree, but she apparently has no thought of leaving. Morning is already peering through the blinds. At last I hear the rustling of her heavy gown which flows along behind her like green waves. She advances step by step, engaged in conversation with him. I hardly exist for her any longer; she doesn’t even trouble to give me an order. “The cloak for madame,” he commands. He, of course, doesn’t think of looking after her himself. While I put her furs about her, he stands to one side with his arms crossed. While I am on my knees putting on her fur over-shoes, she lightly supports herself with her hand on his shoulder. She asks: “And what about the lioness?” “When the lion whom she has chosen and with whom she lives is attacked by another,” the Greek went on with his narrative, “the lioness quietly lies down and watches the battle. Even if her mate is worsted she does not go to his aid. She looks on indifferently as he bleeds to death under his opponent’s claws, and follows the victor, the stronger—that is the female’s nature.” At this moment my lioness looked quickly and curiously at me. It made me shudder, though I didn’t know why—and the red dawn immerses me and her and him in blood. * * * * * She did not go to bed, but merely threw off her ball-dress and undid her hair; then she ordered me to build a fire, and she sat by the fire-place, and stared into the flames. “Do you need me any longer, mistress?” I asked, my voice failed me at the last word. Wanda shook her head. I left the room, passed through the gallery, and sat down on one of the steps, leading from there down into the garden. A gentle north wind brought a fresh, damp coolness from the Arno, the green hills extended into the distance in a rosy mist, a golden haze hovered over the city, over the round cupola of the Duomo. A few stars still tremble in the pale-blue sky. I tore open my coat, and pressed my burning forehead against the marble. Everything that had happened so far seemed to me a mere child’s play; but now things were beginning to be serious, terribly serious.