had he only taken her as he should have taken her, as a
light love, easily gotten, to be taken easily, instead of tragedizing
until his fingers were scarlet.... God!... Yes, where before he had made
his mistakes with women was allowing them to become spiritually
important.

Well, he wouldn't do that with Fenzile. He knew better now. Keep the
heart free. Let there be beauty and graciousness and kindliness, but
keep the heart free, and ask for no heart. All tragedies were internal,
all the outward deeds being only as sounds. Keep the heart free.

There were so many aspects to her. She was like a bird about the house,
gaily colored, of bright song. He loved to see her move here and there,
with movements as of music. And she was like a child at times, as she
solemnly made sherbets--very like a child she was, intense, simple. And
she was like a young relative; there was emptiness in the house as she
went, and when she came back it was like a bird singing.

And she was so beautiful about the place, with her eyes green of the
sea, her dusky velvet lips, her slim cinnamon hands, with the dramatic
orange tinting on the nails. Always was some new beauty in her, a tilt
of the head, a sudden gracious pose. She was like some piece of warm
statuary. From any angle came beauty, shining as the sun.

And in the dusk when his arms were about her, she was no longer child,
relative, or statue. She was woman, vibrant woman. Tensed muscles and a
little stifled moan. And an emotional sob, maybe, or a tear glistening
on her cheek. Relaxation, and a strange, easy dignity. With her arms
about her white knees, her little head upraised, thoughts seemed to be
going and coming from her like bees in and out of their straw skep. And
often he was tempted to ask her what she was thinking of. But he stopped
himself in time. Of course she was thinking of nothing at all, barring
possibly a new sherbet to be made, or whether, if they sold Fatima, the
Abyssinian cook, who was becoming garrulous, would Fatima have a good
home. Trifles! What was the use of asking her? And here was another
possibility. She might--anything was possible--be in some deep subtle
thought, into which, if he asked, he might get enmeshed, or be trapped
emotionally. Better not ask. He wanted to know nothing of her heart, and
to keep his.

He loved her in a happy guarded way. And she loved him. When he came
back after a voyage she looked at him with an amazed joy. "O Zan! Zan,
dear!