It was an odd little encounter, that left vague and dubitable impressions in her mind. ‘Oh, Marthe,’ she groaned, using in her accustomed way the French version of her nurse’s name, ‘that pig is going to monsieur le baron. It’s a tremendous blow, of course—but it doesn’t kill me. Maggot. It seemed incredible that she and her aunt were, indeed, creatures of the same blood, only by a birth or so different beings, and part of that same broad interlacing stream of human life that has invented the fauns and nymphs, Astarte, Aphrodite, Freya, and all the twining beauty of the gods. I want to tell every one. "Nobody composes any more, nobody paints, nobody writes—I mean, on a par with what we've just heard.
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