e wandered from
one to the next, admiring and drinking in the distinctive beauty of
each. There were supple, fair-petalled daffodils, white-robed daisies,
scarlet-lipped poppies, and black pansies, instinct with passion, all
waiting to be culled. It seemed as if a paradise of glad loveliness had
been gathered for her delight. They were all dew-bespangled,
sun-worshipping, wind-free, as if their only purpose was to languish
for some thirsty bee to come and sip greedily of their sweetness. As
Mavis looked, another quality, which had previously eluded her, seemed
to attach itself to each and all of the flowers, a quality that their
calculated shyness now made only the more apparent. It was as if at
some time in their lives their petals had been one and all ravaged by
some relentless wind; as if, in consequence, they had all dedicated
themselves to decorate the altars raised to the honour and glory of
love.

Mavis, also, noticed that beneath each photograph was written a number
in big figures. Then the book repelled her. She put it down, not before
she noticed that, scattered about the room, were other albums filled
presumably in the same way as was the other. She had no mind to look at
these, being already surfeited with beauty; also, she was more than
ever aware of the sense of disquiet which had troubled her before. To
escape once more from this, she walked to the piano, opened it, and let
her fingers stray over the keys. She had not touched a piano for many
weeks, consequently her fingers were stiff and awkward; but in a few
minutes they got back something of their old proficiency: almost
unconsciously, she strayed into an Andante of Chopin's.

The strange, appealing, almost unearthly beauty of the movement soothed
her jangled nerves; before she was aware of it, she was enrapt with the
morbid majesty of the music. Although she was dimly conscious that
someone had come into the room, she went on playing.

The next definite thing that she knew was that two strong arms were
placed about her body, that she was being kissed hotly and passionately
upon eyes and lips.

"You darling; you darling; you perfect darling!" cried a voice.

Mavis was too overcome by the suddenness of the assault to know what to
be at; her first instinct was to deliver herself from the defiling
touch of her assailant. She freed herself with an effort, to see that
it was Mr Williams who had so grossly insulted her. Blind rage, shame,
outraged prid