southward, and ever away, searching in grim fashion for an accounting with
Fate; you, in your intrepid loveliness, to other lives. And if I return
some weeks hence, when I have satisfied the importunate business claims,
what then? Shall we slip the cables and drift quietly out "to the land
east of the sun and west of the moon"?



NO. XIII. SANITY.

(_Eastlake refuses Miss Armstrong's last invitation, continues, and
concludes_.)

Last night was given to me for insight. You were brilliantly your best,
and set in the meshes of gold and precious stones that the gods willed for
you. There was not a false note, not an attribute wanting. Over your head
were mellow, clear, electric lights that showed forth coldly your
faultless suitability. From the exquisitely fit pearls about your neck to
the scents of the wine and the flowers, all was as it should be. I watched
your face warm with multifold impressions, your nostrils dilate with
sensuousness, appreciation, your pagan head above the perfect bosom; about
you the languid eyes of your well-fed neighbors.

The dusky recesses of the rooms, heavy with opulent comfort, stretched
away from our long feast. There you could rest, effectually sheltered from
the harsh noises of the world. And I rejoiced. Each minute I saw more
clearly things as they are. I saw you giving the nicest dinners in
Chicago, and scurrying through Europe, buying a dozen pictures here and
there, building a great house, or perhaps, tired of Chicago, trying your
luck in New York; but always pressing on, seizing this exasperating life,