And sitting in the dancing reflections of the sunlights,
she seemed a veritable emanation of the spirit of enchanted desire. I
see her now, confronting the obscure motives of my behaviour in
good-humoured sadness, while an ancient person in baggy black trousers
and dingy scarlet sash tottered forward with a copper tray bearing tiny
cups and a brass pot with a long handle.

"And in direct sequence, not very clear but clear compared with the
shadowy oblivion that intervened, comes a picture of him whom I have
called more than once a master of illusion. And I suppose he has a right
to the title for he maintained the pose to the end of the chapter. I had
imagined that it would be a painful duty to break the news of his
daughter's death to him. I saw myself offering my condolences and
soothing a father's anguish. I pictured an old man bowed with grief. But
it did not happen that way at all. I forgot that masters of illusion
have no use for facts, not even for such facts as grief or death, until
they have been transmuted into some strange emotional freaks which will
inspire the spectator with awe. And Fate, who is something of an
illusionist herself, plays into the hands of such as he.

"I remember, for instance, sitting heavily in Mrs. Sarafov's front room,
and telling that handsome, self-possessed woman in a few brief words
what had happened to Captain Macedoine's daughter. How a wounded
soldier's rifle, discharged by accident in our direction, had left us
paralyzed and aghast at the inconceivable efficacy and finality of its
achievement. I remember that, and then I remember following her into
Captain Macedoine's house. About nine o'clock, I should say. And Mrs.
Sarafov must have sent a messenger in advance, for Captain Macedoine
already knew what I had to say. We stood in the vestibule near the foot
of the stairs, Mrs. Sarafov whispering that he was being treated by his
doctor with special baths. The doctor came every morning, I was informed
in a respectful tone. And while we stood there, we heard a commotion
upstairs, and a strange procession began to descend the narrow and
shallow steps. I remember turning away hurriedly from a picture on the
wall, a stark, angular composition of muscular male nudes in attitudes
registering classical grief, of the body of Hector being brought back to
the city--and finding Captain Macedoine, supported by a lean man in a
frock coat and by two women, coming down. And perhaps it was the
con