The air was sweet with the perfume of flowers, and the melody of murmuring insects, the blue sky was cloudless, the heat of the sun was tempered by the heather-scented west wind. What would happen to her? Would her soul be shaken, twisted, hypnotized?—as it had been those other times? Music—that took out of her the sense of reality, whirled her into the clouds, that gave to her will the directless energy of a chip of wood on stormy waters. It is not every sort of creature needs—these males. Bravo!—the best cly-faker of 'em all couldn't have done it better. You know nothing of life, nothing of its dangers, nothing of its possibilities. His most eager inquiries and most lavish bribes could gain no further information than that she had left for England, and that her address was—London. She ought to have been disposed to faint and scream at all these happenings; she ought to have maintained a front of outraged dignity to veil the sinking of her heart. One who steals.
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