‘You see,’ he pursued blandly, ‘I lead a life of the most intolerable boredom. Ennison,” she exclaimed, “is that really you?” There was no sign of embarrassment in her manner. 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. And she, she in her own person too, was this eternal Bios, beginning again its recurrent journey to selection and multiplication and failure or survival. “I knew of course that you were at the Montressor’s, but I had no idea that it was a music hall party afterwards. The glance, which he threw at the door, was singularly expressive of his character: it was a mixture of alarm, effrontery, and resolution. She's not mischievous—and besides she's chained, and can't reach you.
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