composer touch the blind most deeply, perhaps, when other senses do
not count at all; but a painter who loses his sight is as helpless in
the world of art as a dismasted ship in the middle of the ocean.

Some of these thoughts passed through Margaret's brain as she stood
beside the ventilator with her friend's new book in her hand, and,
although her reflections were not new to her, it was the first time
she clearly understood that her life had made two natures out of her
original self, and that the two did not always agree. She felt that
she was not halved by the process, but doubled. She was two women
instead of one, and each woman was complete in herself. She had not
found this out by any elaborate self-study, for healthy people do not
study themselves. She simply felt it, and she was sure it was true,
because she knew that each of her two selves was able to do, suffer,
and enjoy as much as any one woman could. The one might like what the
other disliked and feared, but the contradiction was open and natural,
not secret or morbid. The two women were called respectively Madame
Cordova and Miss Donne. Miss Donne thought Madame Cordova very showy,
and much too tolerant of vulgar things and people, if not a little
touched with vulgarity herself. On the other hand, the brilliantly
successful Cordova thought Margaret Donne a good girl, but rather
silly. Miss Donne was very fond of Edmund Lushington, the writer, but
the Primadonna had a distinct weakness for Constantine Logotheti, the
Greek financier who lived in Paris, and who wore too many rubies and
diamonds.

On two points, at least, the singer and the modest English girl
agreed, for they both detested Rufus Van Torp, and each had positive
proof that he was in love with her, if what he felt deserved the name.