they are put everywhere, sometimes in my bed; and last week a man
killed himself because I wouldn't see him. You'd think that he had all
a man wanted from life; yet, in his library, with his secretary waiting
for him, he.... Why?" she demanded, questioning him with her subdued
magic.

"Have you ever cared for any of them?" he asked indirectly.

"I'm not sure," she replied, with an evident honesty; "I am trying to
make up my mind now. But I hope not, it will bring so much trouble. I
do all I can to avoid that; I really hate to hurt people. If it
happens, though, what can you do? Which is worse--to damage others or
yourself? Of course, underneath I am entirely selfish; I have to be; I
always was. Art is the most exhausting thing that is. But I don't know
a great deal about it; other people, who act rather badly, can explain
so fully."

From where Lee sat he could see Cytherea; the unsteady light fell on
the gilt headdress, the black hair and the pale disturbing smile. She
seemed to have paused in a slow graceful walk, waiting, with that
wisdom at once satirical and tender, for him. Together, slowly,
deliberately, they would move away from the known, the commonplace, the
bound, into the unknown--dark gardens and white marble and the murmur
of an ultramarine sea. He was rudely disturbed by the entrance of
Anette and Peyton Morris. "We're so sorry," Anette said in an
exaggerated air of apology; "come on away, Peyton." But the latter told
Lee that Fanny was looking for him. "We are ready to go over to the
Club; it's ten minutes past eight."

Mina Raff gazed up at the doll. "I have an idea the devil made you,"