gateway to the precious garden of his imagination. She could have cried
aloud her chagrin. Such an inestimable treasure was genius that to see
it under lock and key invited indignation. The time was running on, and
her great man had said nothing. He could, if he wished, give her a
million extraordinary glimpses of the earth and the air and the waters
below them, for his eyes were mirrors of his marvellous and
many-coloured soul; but what chance had he with a conjugal iceberg on
one side, a cloud of smoke--poor Aunt Sheldam--on the other! She felt in
her fine, rhapsodic way like a young priestess before the altar, ready
to touch with a live coal the lips of the gods, but withheld by a
malignant power. For the first time in her life Ermentrude Adams,
delicately nurtured in a social hothouse, realized in wrath the major
tyranny of caste.

The evening wore away. Mrs. Sheldam aroused her husband as she cast a
horrified glance at the classic prints he had been studying. The
princess dismissed her two impressionists and came over to the poet.
She, too plainly, did not care for his wife, and as the party broke up
there was a sense of relief, though Ermentrude could not conceal her
dissatisfaction. Her joy was sincere when Madame Kéroulan asked Miss
Adams and her aunt to call. It was slightly gelid, the invitation,
though accepted immediately by Ermentrude. The _convenances_ could look
out for themselves; she would not go back to America without an
interview. The princess raised her hand mockingly.

"What, I go to one of your conferences! Not I, _cher poète_. Keep your
mysteries for your youthful disciples." She looked at Ermentrude, who
did not lower her eyes--she was triumphant now. Perhaps _he_ might say
something before they parted. He did not, but the princess did.