MynewpicturesarrivedlastweekontheGascogne。ThePuvisdeChavannesisevenmorebeautifulthanIthoughtitinParis。Apaledream-maidensitsbyapaledream-cowandastreamofanemicwaterflowsatherfeet。TheConstant，youwillremember，Igotbecauseyouadmiredit。Itishereinallitsfloridsplendour，thewholedominatedbyaglowingsensuosity。Thedraperyofthefemalefigureisaswonderfulasyousaid；thefabricallbarbaricpearlandgold，paintedwithaneasy，effortlessvoluptuousness，andthatwhite，gleaminglineofAfricancoastinthebackgroundrecallsmemoriesofyouveryprecioustome。ButitisuselesstodenythatConstantirritatesme。ThoughIcannotprovethechargeagainsthim，hisbrilliancyalwaysmakesmesuspecthimofcheapness。
HereMargaretstoppedandglancedattheremainingpagesofthisstrangelove-letter。Theyseemedtobefilledchieflywithdiscussionsofpicturesandbooks，andwithaslowsmileshelaidthemby。
Sheroseandbeganundressing。Beforeshelaydownshewenttoopenthewindow。Withherhandonthesill，shehesitated，feelingsuddenlyasthoughsomedangerwerelurkingoutside，someinordinatedesirewaitingtospringuponherinthedarkness。Shestoodthereforalongtime，gazingattheinfinitesweepofthesky。
“Oh，itisallsolittle，solittlethere，“shemurmured。
“Wheneverythingelseissodwarfed，whyshouldoneexpectlovetobegreat？Whyshouldonetrytoreadhighlycolouredsuggestionsintoalifelikethat？IfonlyIcouldfindonethinginitallthatmatteredgreatly，onethingthatwouldwarmmewhenIamalone！Willlifenevergivemethatonegreatmoment？“