Henry Clay, thirteen cents in Hong-Kong and two-bits in that dear old New York. The idea of leaving for Mexico had become unbearable, as he was so easy to like and perhaps even easier to love. Do you know the story of Orpheus? He was a musician who followed his damned wife into Hell to bring her back? He was one of us, I believe. These and her general preparations had perhaps a certain disproportion. But one was clearly the goddess among them, her face hidden, her body seeming to call out to me to possess it at once. But that other world, in spite of her resolute exclusion of it, was always looking round corners and peeping through chinks and crannies, and rustling and raiding into the order in which she chose to live, shining out of pictures at her, echoing in lyrics and music; it invaded her dreams, it wrote up broken and enigmatical sentences upon the passage walls of her mind.
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