I

The man had followed her from Marble Arch,—nota mackerel-eyed old man, sensual and without respect,but one who responded to emotions as an artistand was still young and still interested. He had seenher descend from a motor omnibus, had caught hisbreath at her disturbing femininity, had watched herpass like a sunbeam on the garden side of the road,and in the spirit of a man who sees the materializationof the very essence of woman, turned and followed.

All the way along, under branches of trees that werenewly peppered with early green, he watched her andsaw other men’s heads turn as she passed,—on busses,in taxicabs, in cars and in the infrequent horse-drawncarriage that was like a Chaucerian noun dropped intothe pages of a modern book. He saw men stop as hehad stopped and catch their breath and then pursuetheir way reluctantly. He noticed that women, especiallypassée, tired women, paid her tribute by a flashof smile or a sudden brightness of the eye. Therewas no conscious effort to

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