John Ruskin abused those odious terms 'objective' and 'subjective'?"
Paul asked.

"I can't read Ruskin. He is all landscape decoration; besides, he
believes in the biblical attitude of woman. Put a woman on the
mantelpiece and call her luscious, poetic names and then see how soon
she'll hop down when another man simply cries 'I love you.' If a man
wishes to spoil a woman successfully let him idealize her."

"Poor Ruskin! There are some men in this world too fine for women." Paul
sighed, and slily watched Ellenora as she cracked almonds with her
strong white fingers.

"Fine fiddlesticks!" she ejaculated. "Don't get sentimental, Mr.
Goddard, or else I'll think you have a heart. You are trying to flirt
with me. I know you are. Take me away from this place and let us walk,
walk! Heavens! I'd like to walk to the Battery and smell the sea!"

Paul discreetly stopped, and the pair started up Fifth Avenue. The day
was a brave one; the sky was stuffed with plumy clouds and the rich
colors of a reverberating sunset. The two healthy beings sniffed the
crisp air, talked of themselves as only selfish young people can, and at
Fifty-ninth street, Ellenora becoming tired, waited for a cross-town
car--she expected some people at her house in the evening, and must be
home early. Paul was bidden, but declined; then without savor of
affection they said good-by.

The man went slowly down the avenue thinking: "Of all the women I've
met, this is the most perverse, heartless, daring." He recalled his
Bayreuth experiences, and analyzed Ellenora. Her supple, robust figure
attracted his senses; her face was interesting; she had brains, uncommon
brains. What would she become? Not a poet, not a novelist. Perhaps a
literary critic, like Sainte-Beuve with shining Monday morning reviews.
Perhaps--yes, perhaps a critic, a writer of bizarre prose-poems; she
has personal style, she is herself, and no one else.

"That's it," said Paul, half aloud; "she has style, and I admire style
above everything." He resolved on meeting Ellenora as often as he
could....

The following month he saw much of Arthur Vibert's wife, and found
himself a fool in her strong grasp. The girl had such baffling contrasts
of character, such slippery moods, such abundant fantasy that the young
man--volatility itself--lost his footing, his fine sense of honor and
made love to this sphinx of the ink-pot, was mocked and flouted but
never entirely driven from her presence. More