that at death one dies utterly and is buried in the earth, were patterns
cut from the stuff of reality. They were relevant to fate, typical of
life, in a way that gayer things, like the song of girls or the
field-checked pleasantness of plains or the dream of a soul's holiday in
eternity, were not; And in the bitter eloquence of this pale woman she
rapturously recognised that same authentic quality.

But what good was it if one woman had something of the dignity of nature
and art? Everybody knew that the world was beautiful. She sent her mind
out from the hall to walk in the night, which was not wet, yet had a
bloom of rain in the air, so that the lights shone with a plumy beam and
all roads seemed to run to a soft white cliff. Above, the Castle Rock
was invisible, but certainly cut strange beautiful shapes out of the
mist; beneath it lay the Gardens, a moat of darkness, raising to the
lighted street beyond terraces planted with rough autumn flowers that
would now be close-curled balls curiously trimmed with dew, and grass
that would make placid squelching noises under the feet; and at the end
of the Gardens were the two Greek temples that held the town's
pictures--the Tiepolo, which shows Pharaoh's daughter walking in a
fardingale of gold with the negro page to find a bambino Moses kicking
in Venetian sunlight; the Raeburns, coarse and wholesome as a home-made
loaf; the lent Whistler collection like a hive of butterflies. And at
the Music Hall Frederick Lamond was playing Beethoven. How his strong
hands would beat out the music! Oh, as to the beauty of the world there
was no question!

But people weren't as nice as things. Humanity was no more than an ugly
parasite infesting the earth. The vile quality of men and women could
hardly be exaggerated. There was Miss Coates, the secretary of the
Anti-Suffrage Society, who had come to this meeting from some obscure