He climbed on top of her, pressing her into the couch cushions, the gown billowing around them like a cotton candy parachute. Paris looms behind—a tragedy of strange recollections—here she emerges Phœnix-like, subtly developed, a flawless woman, beautiful, self-reliant, witty, a woman with the strange gift of making all others beside her seem plain or vulgar. The wind blew in fitful gusts, and scattered the yellow leaves from the elms and horse-chestnuts. Paul’s, were rich and wonderful with the soft sunshine of London, the softest, the finest grained, the most penetrating and least emphatic sunshine in the world. He was not Meysey Hill, but an Englishman of business, and he had only a small income.
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