"Bless me!" I cried.
"Stalks with flowers. She comes from Bulgaria, or Esthonia, or somewhere. Has a husband in a castle. Incompatible. He stifles her. Common. In business. Beer spigots. She is artistic. Wants to soar. And tragic. You remember my study of a soul?"
"The rainy night? Yes, I remember."
"Well, she's the one. She sat on the floor and told me her troubles."
"You don't suppose that I could meet her, do you?" I asked.
The poet looked at me with withering scorn. "You wouldn't like her," he said. "She's very modern. She says very startling things. You have to be in the modern spirit to follow her. And sympathetic. She doesn't want any marriage or government or things like that. Just truth and freedom. It's convention that clips our wings."
"Conventions are stupid things," I agreed.
"And the past isn't any good, either," the poet said. "The past is a chain upon us. It keeps us off the mountains."
"Exactly," I assented.
"That's what the Countess thinks. We must destroy the past. Everything. Customs. Art. Government. We must be ready for the coming of the dawn."