She had been going with a twenty-two year old man named Julian Rimbauer in secret. “Don’t you know, child, that this is torture for me? What in God’s name more can you have to tell me?” Her face had become almost like a marble image. I doubt I hold any interest for him anymore. “The real reason why I am out of place here,” she said, “is because I like men. It is absolutely a frightful neighbourhood, this. To-morrow I am going to Paris. Her aunt had summoned up an altogether too vivid picture of her father as the masterful man, overbearing, emphatic, sentimental, noisy, aimless. Your mother, for what it’s worth to you—for there’s nothing for you here, by God!—was the woman I chose for Nicholas. I do not think that I have the Bohemian spirit at all.
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