er way to the door and rather
hurriedly, because she knew it was a weakness--she who was so deliberate
and so strong--she would say, "Write to me," and then she would open and
shut the door herself because she liked to take away the picture of him
standing in the middle of his sanctuary--her sanctuary....

* * * * *

He opened his eyes. The room was so full of her that he took a deep
breath, breathing the certainty of her into his soul. And he seemed to
hear the words, "Write to me." He smiled very tenderly. He loved her to
have this one little wish--she was so far above and beyond concrete
manifestations--she who had such a deep contempt for imprisoning forms.
And he remembered her once looking at a cheque and saying, "The figures,
after all, are a limitation." And suddenly in front of him he saw the
blank sheet of paper. "She shall have the most wonderful love-letter
ever written by man to woman," he said to himself and at the very bottom
of the page, he put one initial. Then very tenderly he folded it up and
addressed it, remembering that it was thus that his first novel had been
dedicated--"To Mrs. ----." "The difference is," he thought, "that this is
a masterpiece."

VIII

TEA TIME

[_To SYLVESTER GATES_]

She lay on a sofa covered with white marabou, her head sunk deep into a
billowy morass of lace-coloured satin and lace-coloured lace. She could
see her pointed toes emerging and her arm dangling over the edge as if
she had forgotten it. On her finger was a huge emerald ring, a splotch
of creme de menthe spilt on the whiteness of her hand. She felt
entrenched and anchored in an altogether strong position, so fixed that
all advances would have to be made to her. This gave to her voice and to
her gestures an indolent melodious security.

As the door opened she turned her eyes round slowly, suppressing all
eagerness.

"Mortimer!" She wondered if disappointment could be as easily controlled
as joy. "How nice of you to come and see me!"

"Are you glad--really?" He was kissing her hand with an unnecessary
mixture of shyness and intensity.

"How intolerably literal people in love are," she thought petulantly;
"always forcing significance into everything."

"Of course," she said, smiling lazily.

"It is good of you to let me come like this." How she hated his
humility, but--"I like you to," she murmured, automatically kind.

"How lovely you look! Lovelier than ever b