"Come and winter with me in Egypt,"--he continued--"Come in my yacht 'The Flame,'--we will take her to Alexandria,--and then do the Nile in a dahabeah, and forget that such frivolous dolls as women exist except to be played with by us 'superior' creatures and thrown aside." "Egypt----the Nile!" I murmured,--somehow the idea pleased me--"Yes,----why not?" "Why not indeed!" he echoed--"The proposal is agreeable to you I am sure. Come and see the land of the old gods,--the land where my princess used to live and torture the souls of men!--perhaps we may discover the remains of her last victim,----who knows!" I avoided his gaze;--the recollection of the horrible winged thing he persisted in imagining to be the transmigrated soul of an evil woman, was repugnant to me. Almost I felt as if there were some subtle connection between that hateful creature and my wife Sibyl. I was glad when the train reached London, and we, taking a hansom, were plunged into the very vortex of human life. The perpetual noise of traffic, the motley crowds of people, the shouting of news-boys and omnibus-conductors,--all this hubbub was grateful to my ears, and for a time at least, distracted my thoughts. We lunched at the Savoy, and amused ourselves with noting the town noodles of fashion,--the inane young man in the stocks of the stiff high collar, and wearing the manacles of equally stiff and exaggerated cuffs, a veritable prisoner in the dock of silly custom,--the frivolous fool of a woman, painted and powdered, with false hair and dyed eyebrows, trying to look as much like a paid courtezan as possible,--the elderly matron, skipping forward on high heels, and attempting by the assumption of juvenile airs and graces to cover up and conceal the obtrusive facts of a too obvious paunch and overlapping bosom,--the would-be dandy and 'beau' of seventy, strangely possessed by youthful desires, and manifesting the same by goat-like caperings at the heels of young married women;--these and such-like contemptible units of a contemptible social swarm, passed before us like puppets at a country fair, and aroused us in turn to laughter or disdain. While we yet lingered over our wine, a man came in alone, and sat down at the table next to ours;--he had with him a book, which, after giving his orders for luncheon, he at once opened at a marked place and began to read with absorbed attention,--I recognised the cover of the volume and knew it to be Mavis Clare's "Differences." A haze floated before my sight,--a sensation of rising tears was in my throat,--I saw the fair face, earnest eyes, and sweet smile of Mavis,--that woman-wearer of the laurel-crown,--that keeper of the lilies of purity and peace. Alas, those lilies!--they were for me "des fleurs étranges,[3] Avec leurs airs de sceptres d'anges; De thyrses lumineux pour doigts de séraphins,-- Leurs parfums sont trop forts, tout ensemble, et trop fins!"