Surely she was cunningly fashioned for the undoing of men; yes, and of herself, poor soul.

What were her coaches, and the Flemish horses, and the house called Burford House in Chelsea?
A wave of memory swept over me, and I saw her simple--well then, more simple!--though always merry, in the sweet-smelling fields at home, playing with my boy's heart as with a toy that she knew little of, but yet by instinct handled deftly.

It pleased her mightily, that toy, and she seemed to wonder when she found that it felt.

She did not feel; joy was hers, nothing deeper.

Yet could she not, might she not, would she not?
I knew what she was; who knew what she might be?
The picture of her rose again before my eyes, inviting a desperate venture, spurring me on to an enterprise in which the effort seemed absurdity, and success would have been in the eyes of the world calamity.