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it happiness for a man to be constantly under the delusion that a woman—or, rather, a succession of women—are in love with him? Perhaps it tends to reconcile him to neglect, to want of appreciation from his own sex, from the world at large—which neglect is largely due, no doubt, to jealousy. Were it a single case of delusion, the rude awaking from that dream would bring with it much mortification; but when they follow as quickly as did Monsieur Anatole Doucet's, relieved by some facile successes, it is possible that vanity derives more gratification from such delusions than irritation when their unsubstantiality is proved.

Elizabeth, to whom the French "decadent" poet was a new experience—she had never met a poet of any description till now—"drew him out" during those first weeks of her stay at the pension, whenever she had an opportunity. He did not in the least attract, but he amused her. She talked more to him than to any other man, and, being what he was, it is not surprising that he mistook the nature of the attention she vouchsafed him. They only met in public; but at table, where he sat opposite, he stabbed her with those big blunt eyes of his,