“Is it any one you know?” Brendon asked. Whatever he did, she was bound to scream. She is Bohemian to the fingertips. The lights of the Champs Elysées and the Place de la Concorde, suggestive, brilliant, seductive, shone like an army of fireflies against the deep cool background of the night. Her eyes fell, and then sought his again with timid interest. His invalid wife and her money had been only the thin thread that held his life together; beaded on that permanent relation had been an inter-weaving series of other feminine experiences, disturbing, absorbing, interesting, memorable affairs. These were his mistresses, Poll Maggot and Edgeworth Bess. Accordingly, he began to retrace his steps, and pursuing the course he had recently taken, scaling the two towers, and passing along the wall of the prison, he descended by means of the door upon the Lower Leads.
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