‘Before I tell you what has happened to me,’ Pierston said, ‘I want to let you know the manner of man I am.’
‘Lord—I know already.’
‘No, you don’t. It is a sort of thing one doesn’t like to talk of. I lie awake at night thinking about it.’
‘No!’ said Somers, with more sympathy, seeing that his friend was really troubled.
‘I am under a curious curse, or influence. I am posed, puzzled and perplexed by the legerdemain of a creature—a deity rather; by Aphrodite, as a poet would put it, as I should put it myself in marble. ... But I forget—this is not to be a deprecatory wail, but a defence—a sort of Apologia pro vita mea.’
‘That’s better. Fire away!’
1. VII. HER EARLIER INCARNATIONS
‘You, Somers, are not, I know, one of those who continue to indulge in the world-wide, fond superstition that the Beloved One of any man always, or even usually, cares to remain in one corporeal nook or shell for any great length of time, however much he may wish her to do so. If I am wrong, and you do still hold to that ancient error—well, my story will seem rather queer.’
‘Suppose you say the Beloved of some men, not of any man.’