She had been so young then. 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. He wondered why she thought love made people happy, and began to talk of the smilax and pinks that adorned the table. He rolled on top of her, pinning her with his arms and forming a tented cage. I give myself to you. You may have to carry them further and longer than you think. He winced from the wasp-like sting.
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