We've got to make him take up the harp of life and go twanging it again. “No!” he said aloud at last. He caught the smirk. He said the place had gone to wrack. She loved to be there, taking part in it all, breathing it, being it. Paris looms behind—a tragedy of strange recollections—here she emerges Phœnix-like, subtly developed, a flawless woman, beautiful, self-reliant, witty, a woman with the strange gift of making all others beside her seem plain or vulgar. He began a jerky, broken conversation that lasted until they reached the station, and left her puzzled at its drift and meaning. ’ He let her go.
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