The fault was in human nature, and he reflected with pride that he had at least not invented human nature; he had not sunk so low as that yet.

The notion amused him; he thought he might get a Satanic epigram out of it some way.

But in the mean time that girl, that wild animal, she kept visibly, tangibly before him; if he put out his hand he might touch hers, he might pass his arm round her waist.

In Paris, in a set he knew there, what an effect she would be with that look of hers, and that beauty, all out of drawing! They would recognize the flame quality in her.

He imagined a joke about her being a fiery spirit, or nymph, naiad, whatever, from one of her native gas-wells.