securely upon the fact that he has no ideals.  He writes for that select circle of leaders who, like the Taines and the Rutlidges, are capable of appreciating his art.  All of which means that he tells filthy stories in good English.  That his stories are identical in material and motive with the vile yarns that are permitted only in the lowest class barber shops and in disreputable bar-rooms, in no way detracts from the admiring praise of his critics, the generosity of his publishers, or the appreciation of those for whom he writes.

With tottering step and feeble, shaking limbs, Edward Taine entered the apartment.  As he stood, silently looking at his young wife, his glazed, red-rimmed eyes fed upon her voluptuous beauty with a look of sullen, impotent lustfulness that was near insanity.  A spasm of coughing seized him; he gasped and choked, his wasted body shaken and racked, his dissipated face hideously distorted by the violence of the paroxysm.  Wrecked by the flesh he had lived to gratify, he was now the mocked and tortured slave of the very devils of unholy passion that he had so often invoked to serve him.  Repulsive as he was, he was an object to awaken the deepest pity.

Mrs. Taine, looking up from her novel, watched him curiously—­without moving or changing her attitude of luxurious repose—­without speaking.  Almost, one would have said, a shade of a smile was upon her too perfect features.

When the man—­who had dropped weak and exhausted into a chair—­could speak, he glared at her in a pitiful rage, and, in his throaty whisper, said with a curse, “You seem to be amused.”

Still, she did not speak.  A tantalizing smile broke over her face, and she stretched her beautiful body lazily in her chair, as a well-conditioned animal stirs in sleek, physical contentment.

Again, with curses, he said, “I’m glad you so enjoy my company.  To be laughed at, even, is better than your damned indifference.”

“You misjudge me,” she answered in a voice that, low and soft, was still richly colored by the wealth of vitality that found expression in her splendid body.  “I am not at all indifferent to your condition—­quite the contrary.  I am intensely interested.  As for the amusement you afford me—­please consider—­for three years I have amused you.  Can you deny me my turn?”

He laughed with a hideously mirthless chuckle as he returned with ghastly humor, “I have had the worth of my money.  I advise you to make the most of your opportunity.  I shall make things as pleasant for you as I can, while I am with you, but, as you know, I am liable to leave you at any time, now.”

“Pray don’t hurry away,” she replied sweetly.  “I shall miss you so when you are gone.”

He glared at her while she laughed mockingly.

“Where is everybody?” he asked.  “The place is as lonely as a tomb.”

“Louise is out riding with Jim.”

“And what are you doing at home?” he demanded suspiciously.