ent beauty is a greater asset than
beauty as such. This time she put on her mauve frock with the heavily
embroidered silver shoulder straps; she wore little jewellery, merely a
necklet of chased old silver and amethysts, and a ring figuring a silver
chimera with tiny diamond eyes. As she surveyed herself in the long
glass, the holy calm which comes over the perfectly-dressed flowed into
her soul like a river of honey. She was immaculate, and from her unlined
white forehead to her jewel-buckled shoes she was beautiful in every
detail. Subtle scent followed her like a trainbearer.

The entire evening was a tribute. From the moment when Holt set eyes
upon her and reluctantly withdrew them to direct the cabman, until they
drove back through the night, she was conscious of the wave of adulation
that broke at her feet. Men's eyes followed her every movement, drank
in every rise and fall of her breast, strove to catch sight of her
teeth, flashing white, ruby cased. Her progress through the dining hall
and the stalls was imperial in its command. As she saw men turn to look
at her again, women even grudgingly analyse her, as homage rose round
her like incense, she felt frightened; for this seemed to be her
triumphant night, the zenith of her beauty and power, and perhaps its
very intensity showed that it was her swan song. She felt a pain in her
left leg.

Jack Holt passed that evening at her feet. A fearful exultation was upon
him. The neighbourhood of Victoria was magnetic; his heart, his senses,
his aesthetic sense were equally enslaved. She realised everything he had
dreamed, beauty, culture, grace, gentle wit. It hurt him physically not
to tell that he loved her still, that he wanted her, that she was
everything. He revelled in the thought that he had found her again, that
she liked him, that he would see her whenever he wanted to, perhaps join
his life with hers; then fear gripped his uneven soul, fear that he was
only her toy, that now she was rich she would tire of him and cast him
into a world swept by the icy blasts of regret. And all through ran the
horribly suggestive memory of that which he had seen on the dressing
table.

Victoria was conscious of all this storm, though unable to interpret its
squalls and its lulls. Without effort she played upon him; alternately
encouraging the pretty youth, bending towards him to read his programme
so that he could feel her breath on his cheek, and drawing up and
becoming abso