hands El Greco or Botticelli put on their women. I suppose that is what gave me the odd shock. They
don't seem to belong to her immense coarse body at all. But neither do the eyes. The hands and the eyes
go together. Yes, that's it.
She smiled and said: "You love beautiful things." Her voice belongs to hands and eyes. A deep rich
glowing contralto. I could feel it go through me like an organ chord. I nodded. She said: "Then you shall
see them, my dear. Come." She paid no attention to the girl. She turned to the door and I followed her.
As I went through the door I looked back at the girl. She appeared more frightened than ever and
distinctly I saw her lips form the word-"Remember."
The room she led me into was-well, I can't describe it. It was like her eyes and hands and voice.
When I went into it I had the strange feeling that I was no longer in New York. Nor in America. Nor