He was bringing the sing-song girl to the hotel! The strange cortège presently vanished below the window-sill. He was really very proud of her, and extraordinarily angry and resentful at the innocent and audacious selfreliance that seemed to intimate her sense of absolute independence of him, her absolute security without him. He felt he was human wisdom prudentially interpolated. You have changed from the veriest butterfly to a woman—you wear different clothes, you have the air of another world. And ever after it struck him that her backward smile as she disappeared was charged with some special significance. “It is an annoyance, my friend,” she said, “not a tragedy. You look like a movie star. The Procession to Tyburn 462 XXXII. .
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