he ghost of such an idea from all the books she had read, all the plays
she had seen. Never could she have imagined a common sailor man striking
Art for her to pieces, as he had struck the story of Anatole France, and
creating above a world he had taught her to despise, a nest for her mind
rough as himself, but in air pure and living.

Raft, the common man, had made her social world seem vulgar as well as
small, chill as well as vulgar.

She was thinking just now as she walked beside him how when she had told
him that the hotel manager would bring him something to eat, he had
said, "but you will want something to eat yourself." That was the sort
of thing constantly recurring in all sorts of ways that had brought her
to know him truly, occurring in little ways as well as in that great and
heroic moment when he had told her to destroy herself with the knife if
he were killed.

As they passed along the Cannabier they saw a drunken sailor reeling
along towards them through the crowd, and Raft drew her by the arm off
the sidewalk to avoid him.

The sight in other times would have made him laugh, or more likely it
would have been scarcely noticed, but She, in some manner or another,
made drink discreditable, and the sight of it to be avoided. It would
have been the same, most likely, had he been taking a child for a walk.
Down near the docks they passed a birdshop before which Raft cast anchor
almost forgetful of his companion. There were all sorts of birds here,
those tiny birds from the African coast one sees in the shops of the
Riviera, canaries and parrots.

There was one parrot, enormous and coloured like a tropical sunset,
drowsy-eyed and insolent looking. When he saw the sailor man he seemed
to rouse up. He looked at Raft and Raft at him.

"I'd like that chap," said Raft, "he beats the lot of them."

"And you shall have him," said she.

He laughed.

"Much good he'd be to a chap like me. Where'd I keep him?"

Her eyes softened as she looked at the bird and from the bird to the
man. Where, indeed, could he keep him? He who had no home--nothing. Then
it was that Money seemed to her what it really is, a god, beautiful and
benign.

It had often seemed to her as a demon, but Raft, who unconsciously had
cast ridicule on her world, was now, unconsciously, shewing her the
great truth she had never seen before, the truth that Money is more
beautiful than Apollo, more etherial than Psyche, more powerful than
Jove.