“She was the High Priestess who turned me in Greece, before Rome. Their talk drifted to the beauty of music, and they took that up again at tea-time. A man's laced hat,—whether adopted from the caprice of the moment, or habitually worn, we are unable to state,—cocked knowingly on her head, harmonized with her masculine appearance. He was no Hoddy, but a tremendous man, with hairy arms and bearded face and drink-shattered intellect. I offered myself as a clerk, as a milliner, as a shop girl. We shall have—hardly any money. She awoke and found herself home amid a pile of three bodies, one of which she recognized as a former denizen of the household. “I wrote it for you. Ill-drawn, without method or sense of proportion, you have put wonderful things on to canvas, have drawn them out of yourself, notwithstanding your mechanical inefficiency. She was quite a beauty, all in white, and I can still see how much you resemble her. I am tired, and I want to be alone.
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