“It was poison—why not?” she answered. Now, in her old place, she was doing her best thoroughly to enjoy a most indifferent dinner. Paris looms behind—a tragedy of strange recollections—here she emerges Phœnix-like, subtly developed, a flawless woman, beautiful, self-reliant, witty, a woman with the strange gift of making all others beside her seem plain or vulgar. Even now she could trace the outline of his shape behind the left-hand curtain. “I was frightened then,” she declared. She was radiant. ” “I wonder,” he said, a trifle irrelevantly, “what the future has in store for you. Birthdays just ain’t the same once you get old kiddo.
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