Everything. "This locket," he said, taking a little ornament attached to a black ribband from his breast, and giving it her,—"do you remember it?" "I do—I do!" cried Winifred. There were cakes and sandwiches—for Ennison a sort of Elysian feast, long to be remembered. She was never able to trace the changes her attitude had undergone, from the time when she believed herself to be the pampered Queen of Fortune, the crown of a good man’s love (and secretly, but nobly, worshipping some one else), to the time when she realized she was in fact just a mannequin for her lover’s imagination, and that he cared no more for the realities of her being, for the things she felt and desired, for the passions and dreams that might move her, than a child cares for the sawdust in its doll. I want to talk to you, and I must return tomorrow. "And someday let him care for me!" She sprang up, alarmed. "Nobody composes any more, nobody paints, nobody writes—I mean, on a par with what we've just heard. “Thank you.
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