The young man shakes hands with the husband; he strives not to look embarrassed, and he talks of indifferent things—­of how well he (the husband) is looking, of his amusements, his projects; and then he (the young man of refined mind) tastes of that keen and highly-seasoned delight—­happiness in crime.  He knows not the details of her home life, the husband is merely a dark cloud that fills one side of the picture, sometimes obliterating the sunlight; a shadowy shape that in certain moments solidifies and assumes the likeness of a rock-sculptured, imminent monster; but the shadow and the shape and the threat are magnetic, and in a sense of danger the fascination is sealed....

See the young man of refined mind in a ball room!  He is leaning against the woodwork in a distant doorway, he scarcely knows what to do with himself; and he is now striving to interest himself in the conversation of a group of men twice his age.  I will not say he is shunned; but neither the matrons nor the young girls make any advances towards him.  The young girls looking so sweet—­in the oneness of their fresh hair, flowers, dresses, and glances—­are being introduced, are getting up to dance, and the hostess is looking round for partners.  She sees the young man in the doorway; but she hesitates and goes to some one else; and if you asked her why, she could not tell you why she avoided him.  Presently the woman of thirty enters.  She is in white satin and diamonds.  She looks for him,—­a circular glance,—­and calm with possession she passes to a seat.  She dances the eighth, twelfth, and fifteenth waltz with him.

Will he induce her to visit his rooms?  Will they be like mine—­strange debauches of colour and Turkish lamps, Marshall’s taste, an old cabinet, a faded pastel which embalms the memory of a pastoral century, my taste; or will it be a library,—­two leather library chairs, a large escritoire, etc.?  Be this as it may, whether the apartments be the ruthless extravagance of artistic impulse, or the subdued taste of the student, she, the woman of thirty, shall be there by night and day:  her statue is there, and even when she is sleeping safe in her husband’s arms with fevered brow, he, the young man of refined mind, alone and lonely shall kneel and adore her.

And should she not visit his rooms?  If the complex and various accidents of existence should have ruled out her life virtuously; if the many inflections of sentiment have decided against this last consummation, then she will wax to the complete, the unfathomable temptress—­the Lilith of old—­she will never set him free, and in the end will be found about his heart “one single golden hair.”  She shall haunt his wife’s face and words (should he seek to rid himself of her by marriage), a bitter sweet, a half-welcome enchantment; she shall consume and destroy the strength and spirit of his life, leaving it desolation, a barren landscape, burnt and faintly scented with the sea.  Fame and wealth shall slip like sand from him.  She may be set aside for the cadence of a rhyme, for the flowing line of a limb, but when the passion of art has raged itself out, she shall return to blight the peace of the worker.