And I have no more the pistol. She could hear the bell tinkle as the horse shook its head. “This is my way back to my side of the Park,” she said. To-night the subtle suggestiveness of those few daring lines, fascinating in their very simplicity, the head thrown back, the half-closed eyes—the inner meaning of the great artist seemed to come to him with a rush. Her head was downcast as she studied the museum-like exhibits of various dusts on the resilient tile flooring. You may enjoy your pride, your arrogance—in a coffin. She had begun to care about her appearance again, looking into the glass he gave her, a thing nearly priceless that was bordered in intricate golden filigree and rubies. She was dressed for the street very much as her own maid was accustomed to dress, and there was a thick veil attached to her hat.
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