With an inimitably aristocratic nod of the head he calls me over to him, and I--I obey his call--against my own will.

"Take my furs," he quickly commands.

My entire body trembles with resentment, but I obey, abjectly like a slave.

* * * * *

All night long I waited in the ante-room, raving as in a fever. Strange images hovered past my inner eye. I saw their meeting--their long exchange of looks. I saw her float through the hall in his arms, drunken, lying with half-closed lids against his breast. I saw him in the holy of holies of love, lying on the ottoman, not as slave, but as master, and she at his feet. On my knees I served them, the tea-tray faltering in my hands, and I saw him reach for the whip. But now the servants are talking about him.

He is a man who is like a woman; he knows that he is beautiful, and he acts accordingly. He changes his clothes four or five times a day, like a vain courtesan.

In Paris he appeared first in woman's dress, and the men assailed him with love-letters. An Italian singer, famous equally for his art and his passionate intensity, even invaded his home, and lying on his knees before him threatened to commit suicide if he wouldn't be his.

"I am sorry," he replied, smiling, "I should like to do you the favor, but you will have to carry out your threat, for I am a man."

* * * * *

The drawing-room has already thinned out to a marked degree, but she apparently has no thought of leaving.

Morning is already peering through the blinds.

At last I hear the rustling of her heavy gown which flows along behind her like green waves. She advances step by step, engaged in conversation with him.

I hardly exist for her any longer; she doesn't even trouble to give me an order.

"The cloak for Madame," he commands. He, of course, doesn't think of looking after her himself.

While I put her furs about her, he stands to one side with his arms crossed. While I am on my knees putting on her fur over-shoes, she lightly supports herself with her hand on his shoulder. She asks: "And what about the lioness?"

"When the lion whom she has chosen and with whom she lives is attacked by another," the Greek went on with his narrative, "the lioness quietly lies down and watches the battle. Even if her mate is worsted she does not go to his aid. She looks on indifferently as he bleeds to death under his opponent's claws, and follows the victor, the stronger--that is the female's nature."




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