His complexion was as blue as a sailor's jacket, and though Mr. She was not quite clear how she should find it, but she felt she would. A hush descended across the audience as instruments tuned, creating small ladders of fifths that collapsed abruptly, snatches of solos that disappeared and reappeared like gags in a house of mirrors. So he made merry at the dinner table, told comic stories, and was astonished at the readiness with which she grasped the comic side of life. McClintock, without comment, accepted the hand. 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.
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