Part 7 Then one day a little thing happened that clothed itself in significance. We have known men who have come here for no other purpose than to prove their unassailable virtue, who have strode into the arena of temptation, waving the—the what is it—the white flower of a blameless life, only to exchange it with marvellous facility for the violets of the Parisienne. Nay, for aught I know, some of them may even now have got scent of me. Why had he kissed her? What had led him into that? Neither love nor passion— utter blankness so far as reducing the act to terms. “There’s no one here except me. White calls them.
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