A door led to the inner room; and it was evident from the peals of merriment, and other noises, that, ever and anon, resounded from within, that this chamber was occupied by the Marquis and his friends. Something seemed to dredge up from the recesses of her memory and she brightened. “Why do you hate me again, my love?” He seemed to brighten, feeding upon the intensity of her emotion. I want to hammer myself against all this that pens women in. What would happen to her? Would her soul be shaken, twisted, hypnotized?—as it had been those other times? Music—that took out of her the sense of reality, whirled her into the clouds, that gave to her will the directless energy of a chip of wood on stormy waters. “Or I know another one who wears cologne. It arises, I think, from an over developed sense of humour.
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