"You are the one person in the world who loves me, and the only one I
love!"

"Violet dearest, how can you say so?"

"The truth, dear, I assure you. I fell in love last winter when we were
at Nice with a boy with the most romantic, heavenly eyes you ever
saw--an Italian. And then he went and spoilt everything by falling in
love with me. I hated him then. He became cheap and very nasty. He only
liked my outer covering too, and was not in the least interested in the
creature that lived inside."

"You apparently only cared for his eyes," observed Olga.

"Yes, exactly, dear. How clever you are! I should like to have brought
them away with me as trophies. But he didn't love me enough for that,
and nothing else would have satisfied me. Have you put that hateful,
revolting book quite out of reach? I think you had better. If I get it
again, you won't take it away so easily a second time."

"I can't think what makes you like such beastly things," said Olga,
sitting down upon it firmly.

"Nor I, dear. It's just the way I'm made. I don't like them either. I
hate them. That's where the fascination comes in. There! Let me put on
my hat, and I am ready. I suppose I must veil myself? We mustn't dazzle
the impressionable Max, must we? He must accustom his sight to me
gradually. Never mind the rest of those things, Allegro! Françoise can
finish, and send them on by the luggage-cart in the evening. Come along,
let us face the dragon and get it over."