The other kicked over the traces a bit, made rather a hit with her singing at some of those French places, and went the pace in a mild, ladylike sort of way. "Swear that you will do this," she cried. ‘Think it’s worth getting some sort of light and following her down there?’ asked Roding. She was never able to trace the changes her attitude had undergone, from the time when she believed herself to be the pampered Queen of Fortune, the crown of a good man’s love (and secretly, but nobly, worshipping some one else), to the time when she realized she was in fact just a mannequin for her lover’s imagination, and that he cared no more for the realities of her being, for the things she felt and desired, for the passions and dreams that might move her, than a child cares for the sawdust in its doll. But if she smiled at all it was with her eyes. "My little fancy man's quite as fond of me as of you, Bess. He haunted a state between hectic dreaming and mild delirium, and she found herself talking aloud to him.
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