The cause of the rupture between them was a matter only of surmise; but
the effect it had on the woman testified clearly to the remarkable power
of Reginald Clarke. He had entered her life and, behold! the world was
transfixed on her canvases in myriad hues of transcending radiance; he
had passed from it, and with him vanished the brilliancy of her
colouring, as at sunset the borrowed amber and gold fade from the face
of the clouds.
The glamour of Clarke's name may have partly explained the secret of his
charm, but, even in circles where literary fame is no passport, he
could, if he chose, exercise an almost terrible fascination. Subtle and
profound, he had ransacked the coffers of mediaeval dialecticians and
plundered the arsenals of the Sophists. Many years later, when the
vultures of misfortune had swooped down upon him, and his name was no
longer mentioned without a sneer, he was still remembered in New York
drawing-rooms as the man who had brought to perfection the art of
talking. Even to dine with him was a liberal education.
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