She felt, and shuddered to feel, that she could draw from dark stores.

Hitherto in her works it had been a triumph of the good.

They revealed a gaping deficiency of the subtle insight she now possessed.

'Exhibit humanity as it is, wallowing, sensual, wicked, behind the mask,' a voice called to her; she was allured by the contemplation of the wide-mouthed old dragon Ego, whose portrait, decently painted, establishes an instant touch of exchange between author and public, the latter detected and confessing.

Next to the pantomime of Humour and Pathos, a cynical surgical knife at the human bosom seems the surest talisman for this agreeable exchange; and she could cut.