When first you left your home you had no idea that I was the hidden impulse. Beethoven; he’s the best of them. Somehow to-night—I don’t know. He swore when I tried to get it out with the ladle, and told me what it said. ‘What do you mean?’ ‘You have papers of identity, for the Mother Abbess told me so. But here the resemblance stopped. If ever I did meet a man I could love, I should love him”—her voice dropped again—“platonically. ‘There’s no controlling you, is there?’ He held up his hands. Sorry I’m a bit late the first evening. But give me till to-morrow—only till to-morrow—I may be able to part with him then. Their houses became a refuge of ill repute, the source of rumor and intrigue in the highest echelons of society.
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