"And was that all?"
"Absolutely. I pressed the pansy in the poem, and vowed—such vows are cheap—never to trust a woman again. But, after all, what claim have we to view our love as a priceless gift when we invariably demand cent. per cent. in kind? I have argued this out with myself, and realise that I was her debtor, I was first an artist whom she had patronised and then—a man whom she had——"
"Well?"
"I was going to say—ennobled. Don't you think there are some women who, by power of faith, transmute even clay-footed idols into gold?"
I shook my head and prepared to turn over the leaf, but he made as though to remove the book.
"That last one is a marguerite. It tells a very bald narrative—just a common instance of man's blockheadedness and Fate's topsy-turvydom."
Bentham threw aside his cigarette and closed his eyes. He was looking worn and old.
"I think I have told you all," he continued presently, "except about these petals. They were gathered from the ground as her fingers shredded them to discover whether I loved her passionement or pas du tout."
"The same person?"
"No, another; she was what is called a coquette—an innocent girl baby, who played with men's hearts as children probe sawdust dolls—from a spirit of inquiry. For some silly wager she flirted with a man staying in the hotel, an uncouth provincial clown whom I ignored. But it maddened me. I started for the States to accept a commission that had been offered—that my love for her had held in the balance—and—and I never saw her alive again."