But after all, what did it matter whether she had secrets or not? To him she was not a woman but a symbol; and one did not investigate the antecedents of symbols. Like a thorough-bred racer, he would sustain twice as much fatigue as a person of heavier mould. She recalled how she had stretched out her arms toward the magic blue horizon. . In this cell was a huntsman, who had fractured his skull while hunting, and was perpetually hallooing after the hounds;—in that, the most melancholy of all, the grinning gibbering lunatic, the realization of "moody madness, laughing wild. And this time the departure had a tremendous effect of finality. She went to her own table and sat down. His literary instincts were reviving. “You promised faithfully to be there,” he said slowly. She made no answer, and for a time he debated some problems with himself.
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