And thus it was that she came upon a book of Stevenson's verse—her first adventure into poetry. "What has happened?" asked Sister Prudence. Slowly and reluctantly she came to realize that Vivie Warren was what is called an “ideal. “I doubted my luck, at least. My dear! we’ve had so many moments! I used to go over the times we’d had together, the things we’d said—like a rosary of beads. He would ask her to come to dinner with him in some little Italian or semiBohemian restaurant in the district toward Soho, or in one of the more stylish and magnificent establishments about Piccadilly Circus, and for the most part she did not care to refuse. What hotel should she go to? If she told a cabman to drive to an hotel, any hotel, what would he do—or say? He might drive to something dreadfully expensive, and not at all the quiet sort of thing she required. There’s something—puppyish in a man’s usual attitude to women. "Pah! He's a fool. I’ve wanted you—always. But his hand was withheld by Thames. The acid of this incertitude had disintegrated his nerve; and in Canton had come the smash. It is a plain case of alcoholic stupor.
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