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 pointment, she discovered that its magic had vanished. No further in the past than that very morning she had been unable to contemplate this trumpery paste-board without the tears flowing; now she found herself able to regard it with the utmost equanimity, even indifference. She was amused, indeed, now that this sordid adventure had lost whatever esoteric significance it had held for her to this point, to examine the face of this vulgar little cabot in the critical spirit. There was, she learned, nothing fresh about this face, in spite of Tony's youth; a kind of stupid sophistication, the sophistication of a bête paysan, lingered around the eyes; the mouth was soft and sensual, lacking in form or purpose; the nose too small; the ears too large. For the first time, she observed clearly that the boy's clothes were cut in a ridiculous outer-boulevard fashion, and that the pattern of the cloth seemed repulsively loud. This, then, she admitted, with a touch of cynicism unusual to her nature, was the paragon who had shared her bed for so many months, and had occupied her thoughts ever since. She shuddered, and perhaps a little ashamed, but at the same time quite calmly, without haste or rage, removing the photograph from its frame, she tore it into bits, which she scattered in the waste-paper-basket.

For a few seconds, possibly for the better part of a minute, the Countess Nattatorrini unlocked the secret chambers of her soul which she had kept