You have changed from the veriest butterfly to a woman—you wear different clothes, you have the air of another world. You say you have twenty-four hundred in your letter of credit. “I cannot but conclude,” he said, “that your errand involved the recital to my wife of some trouble in which you find yourself. I thought that I was marrying Meysey Hill, not that creature. A blow from the iron bar instantly stretched the ruffian on the floor. Paris looms behind—a tragedy of strange recollections—here she emerges Phœnix-like, subtly developed, a flawless woman, beautiful, self-reliant, witty, a woman with the strange gift of making all others beside her seem plain or vulgar.
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