"I forgot. . Presently. She was never able to trace the changes her attitude had undergone, from the time when she believed herself to be the pampered Queen of Fortune, the crown of a good man’s love (and secretly, but nobly, worshipping some one else), to the time when she realized she was in fact just a mannequin for her lover’s imagination, and that he cared no more for the realities of her being, for the things she felt and desired, for the passions and dreams that might move her, than a child cares for the sawdust in its doll. “Look round the table,” she said. ‘Of course not,’ snapped his friend. She brought the unconscious man down. Suddenly, she heard the crunch of new feet on the gravel. The air was sharp and bracing, and the leaves which had taken their autumnal tints were falling from the trees. When, by slow and toilsome efforts, he had arrived midway, something obstructed his further progress. He had promised her some books, for she had voiced her hunger for stories. Then he threw the letter at me.
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