Page:Frank Owen - Woman Without Love (1949 reprint).djvu/113

 Arrayed in silk That holds like cool night fog Her languorous perfumed form. Another age, another hour, A Manchu Princess or a flower. But today, she stands In the market-place And smiles And offers love for pay.'"

Ivan paused and puffed thoughtfully at his cigar.

"'Another day, another hour,'" he repeated. "Strange thought. Another day and I wonder what you might have been. And that speculation gives vent to another. Louella, I wonder what you really are? Are we fools of earth capable of appraising anything? In art a silly, vapid picture can never be of vast importance. Is art then superior to life? I say no, a thousand times no. A silly vapid human being, though he be clothed in sanctity, is just a daub unless he has some outstanding personality. Perhaps we must rearrange all values. Our whole conception of civilization may be wrong. We are so beset and smirched by pomp, quackery, pseudo-religion and charlatanism, our eyes have become myopic. We cannot distinguish the false dawn from the real. Madame, I salute you. You are a great general. You have fought life's battles nobly. To meet you, to know you, has been a great adventure. Only one thing saddens me, that I have met you too late."

Madame took a bit of snuff to hide her confusion. She was inordinately moved.

"It is never too late, Ivan," she said.

"Not if one believes in eternal life," he said. "Perhaps the Yogi philosophy is right. Perhaps man only dies that he may be born again. If that be so, I hope that you are near me in that second blooming."

Long after Ivan Alter had gone that night, Madame still sat before the fireplace. There was a strange peace in the house. From the rooms downstairs came the occasional echo of laughter.