the documents for his "Survey of Contemporary Society." He removed the
file marked London from between the files Barcelona and Boston where it
had been misplaced, and turned over the papers rapidly. "The lady you
mention," he rejoined at last, "whom I have listed not under S. but as
Edith, alias Scheherazade, has left but few evidences in my
possession. Here is an old laundry account which she left for you to
pay, a cheque drawn by her and marked 'R/D,' a letter from her mother
in Honolulu (on ruled paper), a poem written on a restaurant bill--'To
Atthis'--and a letter by herself, on Lady Equistep's best notepaper,
containing some damaging but entertaining information about Lady
Equistep. Then there are my own few observations on two sheets of
foolscap."

"Edith," murmured Eeldrop, who had not been attending to this
catalogue, "I wonder what has become of her. 'Not pleasure, but
fulness of life. . . to burn ever with a hard gem-like flame,' those
were her words. What curiosity and passion for experience! Perhaps
that flame has burnt itself out by now."

"You ought to inform yourself better," said Appleplex severely, "Edith
dines sometimes with Mrs. Howexden, who tells me that her passion for
experience has taken her to a Russian pianist in Bayswater. She is
also said to be present often at the Anarchist Tea Rooms, and can
usually be found in the evening at the Cafe de l'Orangerie."

"Well," replied Eeldrop, "I confess that I prefer to wonder what has
become of her. I do not like to think of her future. Scheherazade
grown old! I see her grown very plump, full-bosomed, with blond hair,
living in a small flat with a maid, walking in the Park with a
Pekinese, motoring with a Jewish stock-broker. With a fierce appetite