She felt sure
that he and such men as he yield the homage they would refuse to the
angel to the siren. Instead of seeking the angel within herself,
therefore, she sought the siren. Instead of striving to develope that
part of her which was spiritual, she fixed all her attention upon that
part of her which was fleshly, which was physical. She neglected the
flame and began to make pretty patterns with the ashes.
Robin came to bid her good-bye before leaving London for Rome. The
weeping woman was gone. He looked into the hard, white face of a woman
who smiled. They talked rather constrainedly for a few minutes. Then
suddenly he said:
"Once it was a painted window, now it's an iron shutter."
He got up from his chair and clasped his hands together behind his back.
"What on earth do you mean?" she asked, still smiling.
"Your face," he answered. "One could see you obscurely before. One can
see nothing now."
"You talk great nonsense, Robin. It's a good thing you're going back to
Rome."
"At least I shall find the spirit of beauty there," he said, almost with
bitterness. "Over here it is treated as if it were Jezebel. It's trodden
down. It's thrown to the dogs."
"Poor spirit!"
She laughed lightly.
"Do you understand what they're saying of you?" he went on.
"Where?"
"All over London."
"Perhaps."
"But--do you?"
"Perhaps I don't care to."
"They're saying--'Poor thing! But it's her own fault.
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