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. “It makes me feel,” he said, “that nothing is impossible—to have you here beside me. In truth, she had been quite glad to lose the argument about remaining while the bullet was dug out of Jack’s side. “It may be true, but it isn’t quite what I have in mind. —There, Mr.
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