The Centaurians
was the work of a visionary, the human form never reached such absolute divinity.
A feminine figure of petite, delicate loveliness was passionately clasped in the massive arms of a herculean Adonis, who gazed rapturously into the upturned flower face, fascinating in winsome, diablier beauty. The pose was ideal. This risque conception was "Fancy," and I laughed softly as I figured out the situation. Each fancied, desired, toyed with the other, both were superficial; and the sculptor, after varied experience, happily discovered that Love was merely a fleeting disturbance. Vaguely I wondered if anything so incredulous could be true, and devoutly hoped so. Centauri I loved, fiercely desired, but should the end be disastrous I would give all my wealth to have the madness flit airily away into convenient, mischievous "Fancy." Not caring to mar the delightful, whimsical impression this astounding phantasy made upon me, I left the museum.
The morning was far advanced—noon, I judged by the sun. There wasn't a soul in sight, just a broad expanse of calm and peace throbbing beneath a scorching sun, and my enchanting forest of vermilion flickered, sultry, seemingly hundreds of miles away. I decided to go to the city. It was a long tramp, but I rested frequently in cool green parks, shaded by giant trees. Houses at first were few, quaintly picturesque, surrounded with beautiful gardens and orchards. Soon this lovely rural simplicity gave way to broad avenues lined with costly residences, but after awhile, though the uniformed ele-
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