bald head in this Republican Government gets pink at the top
whenever her dress rustles outside the door. They bow with immense
deference when the door opens, but the bow conceals a smirk because
of those Venetian days. That confounded Versoy shoved his nose
into that business; he says accidentally. He saw them together on
the Lido and (those writing fellows are horrible) he wrote what he
calls a vignette (I suppose accidentally, too) under that very
title. There was in it a Prince and a lady and a big dog. He
described how the Prince on landing from the gondola emptied his
purse into the hands of a picturesque old beggar, while the lady, a
little way off, stood gazing back at Venice with the dog
romantically stretched at her feet. One of Versoy's beautiful
prose vignettes in a great daily that has a literary column. But
some other papers that didn't care a cent for literature rehashed
the mere fact. And that's the sort of fact that impresses your
political man, especially if the lady is, well, such as she is . .
."

He paused. His dark eyes flashed fatally, away from us, in the
direction of the shy dummy; and then he went on with cultivated
cynicism.

"So she rushes down here. Overdone, weary, rest for her nerves.
Nonsense. I assure you she has no more nerves than I have."

I don't know how he meant it, but at that moment, slim and elegant,
he seemed a mere bundle of nerves himself, with the flitting
expressions on his thin, well-bred face, with the restlessness of
his meagre brown hands amongst the objects on the table. With some
pipe ash amongst a little spilt wine his forefinger traced a