‘Bête,’ she flung at him. When I am leading a true life, a pure and simple life free of all stimulants and excitements, I think—I think— oh! with pellucid clearness; but if I so much as take a mouthful of meat—or anything—the mirror is all blurred. When I think of those ateliers of ours, the art jargon, the decadents with their flamboyant talk I long for a twoedged sword and a minute of Divinity. There was something which chilled even him in the cold impassivity of her features.
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