names had been unknown to her till now, and of whom their disciple spoke as though the language of true passion had never been heard till their voices rang through the world. They had not reached the sheltered places where Elizabeth had hitherto dwelt. She did not understand more than half of his wild jargon, and while he believed he was engraving an indelible impression on the English girl, she regarded him with amused toleration, and that pity which is far from being "akin to love."
The walk to the theatre, upon the whole, entertained her. She had never had so much consecutive conversation with the fin-de-siècle poet before. At table his talk was commonly a wild protest against all things as they are. He now began by vaunting the superiority of the Théâtre Libre over the obsolete, conventional Français—so fettered by scruples of propriety; so incapable of looking Nature straight in the face!
"This 'Mademoiselle de la Seiglière,'" he said, when they were ensconced in their box, "is, after all, very poor stuff. It is all connu."
"Have you ever written a play yourself—a play that can be acted?" asked Elizabeth, as she leant back, to avoid the chance of recognition.
"Yes; on the subject of Aholibah—a play that would just suit Sarah Bernhardt. How she would understand it! How she would feel the part! I can see her now, with her eyes fixed hungrily upon the wall."
"I am afraid I do not remember much about her. What is the story?"
"She falls in love with the pictures on the wall."
