“Ouida,” said Doane, “was more than intimate with Demas, known to you all by reputation. But she fooled him, as she has every man who has thus far been lured into the magic circle of her regard. One night Demas was playing Falstaff in ‘The Merry Wives of Windsor.’ He was of ordinary size, but made himself up as the ‘huge hell of flesh,’ by a rubber apparatus, which was nightly filled with air. This night the cork came out which held the air in the rubber affair, and almost in the twinkling of an eye, he dwindled to his normal size, while his clothing hung about him like the folds of a collapsed balloon. The audience broke into a roar. The curtain was rung down, and it was fully fifteen minutes before order was sufficiently restored to allow the performance to proceed. Next day Demas was found dead in his apartments, a bullet wound in the temple. The press said it was chagrin. The real truth was that Ouida had led him on and on, until he thought she loved him. That night the fatal knowledge came to him that she was a heartless jilt, and he simply took the pistol route, with which to end his misery.”
“Gentlemen,” said Connors, “you astonish me. I have heard of such creatures as you paint this woman, but never before had the distinguished honor of a personal acquaintance. I do believe that a grain or two of discount on such stuff would be wise and just to her.”
“And yet,” said Wayland, “what a following she has, despite all this. Go into the ball room, and see New York at her feet.”
“New York is the greatest city in the world,” said Doane, “yet it is the most easily duped.”
“People, in their wild desire to be entertained,” said Connors, “pick and choose queer idols for worship.”
At this juncture, unobserved, Ouida, accompanied by Paul, enter at the rear, but are partially concealed by large and rich portieres. Ouida had been searching for Doane, in order to soothe his wounded feelings, although not at fault herself. She heard herself as the subject of Doane’s conversation, but hardly thought it would take the shape it did. She intended, in the midst of it, to burst in and turn it into something amusing at Doane’s expense.
“The most astonishing part of it all,” said Doane, “is her well-known life here in New York. At twelve, Ouida, who was the natural daughter of a woman of the town and Albert Angelo, was a child of the street. How she lived, she hardly knew herself. Lovers she had by the score. She became a model. She would just as willingly sit nude, as attired in silks and satins. One day Warde discovered that she possessed talent, nay, genius, of a high order. She was inspired to uplift herself out of base conditions. She was sent abroad, where, between her scrapes and love affairs, she studied. The power of art dowered her with wondrous victories. One or two conceptions a year brought her a fortune. She became rich enough to gratify every whim. She came here three years ago, having lost none of her Bohemian characteristics. Society has opened its arms; as you see, it worships her.”
Paul breaks away from Ouida, and confronts Doane, anger and contempt leaping from his eyes.
“A wonderful story! Is it fully told?” said Paul. “Do these gentlemen know all?”
“All!” said Doane, “all, man? Why, could more possibly be crowded into the life of one woman?”