ids, whilst men
became regenerated? It was too absurd. There were a good many curious
things said, and it was certainly true, that since she had gone upon
the stage her toilette and equipage were unrivalled. Berenice looked
into the eyes of the women whom she met day by day, and she read their
verdict. But if she suffered, she said not a word to any of it.

They passed out from the glancing shadows of the trees towards the
Piccadilly entrance. Here they paused for a moment and stood together
looking down the drive. The sunlight seemed to touch with quivering
fire the brilliant phantasmagoria. Berenice was serious. Her dark eyes
swept down the broad path and her under-lip quivered.

"It is this," she exclaimed, with a slight forward movement of her
parasol, "which makes me long for an earthquake. Can one do anything
for women like that? They are not the creations of a God; they are the
parasitical images of type. Only it is a very small type and a very
large reproduction. Why do I say these things to you, I wonder? You
are against me, too! But then you are not a woman!"

"I am not against you in your detestation of type," he answered. "The
whole world of our sex as well as yours is full of worn-out and
effete reproductions of an unworthy model. It is this intolerable
sameness which suffocates all thought. One meets it everywhere; the
deep melancholy of our days is its fruit. But the children of this
generation will never feel it. The taste of life between their teeth
will be neither like ashes nor green figs. They are numbed."

She flashed a look almost of anger upon him.

"Yet you have ranged yourself upon their side. When my story first
appeared, its fate hung for days in the balance. Women had not made up
their minds how to take it. It came into your hands for review. Well!
you did not spare it, did you? It was you who turned the scale. Your
denunciation became the keynote of popular opinion concerning me. The
women for whose sake I had written it, that they might at least
strike one blow for freedom, took it with a virtuous shudder from the
hands of their daughters. I was pronounced unwholesome and depraved;
even my personal character was torn into shreds. How odd it all
seems!" she added, with a light, mirthless laugh. "It was you who put
into their hands the weapon with which to scourge me. Their trim,
self-satisfied little sentences of condemnation are emasculated
versions of your judgment. It is you whom I h