was lapsing from a sane and proper ideal. And then--the second miracle in
my career, which has been full of miracles--I came across a casual
reference, in the _Staffordshire Recorder_, of all places, to the
_Mademoiselle de Maupin_ of Théophile Gautier. Something in the
reference, I no longer remember what, caused me to guess that the book
was a revelation of matters hidden from me. I bought it. With the
assistance of a dictionary, I read it, nightly, in about a week. Except
_Picciola_, it was the first French novel I had ever read. It held me
throughout; it revealed something on nearly every page. But the climax
dazzled and blinded me. It was exquisite, so high and pure, so
startling, so bold, that it made me ill. When I recovered I had fast in
my heart's keeping the new truth that in the body, and the instincts of
the body, there should be no shame, but rather a frank, joyous pride.
From that moment I ceased to be ashamed of anything that I honestly
liked. But I dared not keep the book. The knowledge of its contents would
have killed my aunt. I read it again; I read the last pages several
times, and then I burnt it and breathed freely.

Such was I, as I forced my will on my aunt in the affair of the concert.
And I say that she who had never suspected the existence of the real me,
suspected it then, when we glanced at each other across the
breakfast-room. Upon these apparent trifles life swings, as upon a pivot,
into new directions.

I sat with my aunt while Lucy went with the note. She returned soon with
the reply, and the reply was:

'So sorry I can't accept your kind invitation. I should have liked to go
awfully. But Fred has got the toothache, and I must not leave him.'