She was usually in love with somebody, and, as her passion was never returned, she kept all her illusions. She tried to look picturesque, but only succeeded in being untidy.

“Death must be so beautiful. To lie in the soft brown earth, with the grasses wa…”

“My dear fellow why have you any reason? What odd chaps you painters are. You do…”

“I don't see anybody here to-night whom one could possibly call a serious purpos…”

“I am sick of women who love one. Women who hate one are much more interesting.”