That night in Paris I saw on the bills ‘Fatal Motor Accidents. She could have dined alone in her room; but courage had demanded that she face the ordeal and have done with it. ‘Don’t look at me like that,’ Martha begged. She reminded him sometimes of the one holy and ineffable Madonna, at others of Berode, the great courtezan of her day, who had sent kings away from her doors, and had just announced her intention of ending her life in a convent. Tender with the sick, firm with the strong, fearless, with a body that had the resistance of iron, there was nothing of the hypocrite in him.
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