Her name is Wanda von Dunajew.
And she is actually my Venus.
“But madame, what put the idea into your head?”
“The little picture in one of your books—”
“I had forgotten about it.”
“The curious notes on its back—”
“Why curious?”
She looked at me.
“I have always wanted to know a real dreamer some time—for the sake of the change—and you seem one of the maddest of the tribe.”
“Dear lady—in fact—” Again I fell victim to an odious, asinine stammering, and in addition blushed in a way that might have been appropriate for a youngster of sixteen, but not for me, who was almost a full ten years older—