She remembered Bertie Butternut without a qualm. When his arms had been about her it had stirred no instinct in her but that to fight back. She perfectly understood that as to love and its languors, its high spots, its dumps, she was a mere unbaked bun.
She realized that she knew nothing of the other sex beyond the men’s underclothing advertisements.
And they had never impressed her.
She had better muscles herself than any the artists seemed able to draw.
Indeed, were these the pictures of men?
She remembered the sums she had received from time to time to pose for posters of young gentlemen wearing new style collars.
“Pooey!” exclaimed Verbeena. And lit her 18,462nd pill or cigarette.
But these Arabs! Ah, there was something to them! She felt that they had something more than bridge-whist, golf and billiards under their turbans, something more than mere hop-Scotches of the heart.
They smoked as many cigarettes as herself—nearly.
They glowered like devils and jammed their horses around and kicked the camels about with a refreshing brutality.