She was never able to trace the changes her attitude had undergone, from the time when she believed herself to be the pampered Queen of Fortune, the crown of a good man’s love (and secretly, but nobly, worshipping some one else), to the time when she realized she was in fact just a mannequin for her lover’s imagination, and that he cared no more for the realities of her being, for the things she felt and desired, for the passions and dreams that might move her, than a child cares for the sawdust in its doll. I hope we may never find her again. She opened the window, for the night was mild, and sat on the floor with her chin resting upon the window-sill. Her aunt was a long time before she answered. Then a ride to London on horseback. Beyond was another door, on which was painted in black letters: MR. Ah, Thierry and Poussaint, if my memory serves me. I do not even know his name.
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