"Dripping wet," he said. "Leave the suds on if you wish."
She shook her head. "That wouldn't be honest." She broke away, ran to the bathroom. She stepped inside the bathroom and drew the door shut. Cornith stood there alone, and suddenly he felt as though his own weight had increased. Something was gone, locked away from him, something that had been vitally alive and warm and colorful. He walked over to the window and stood looking down at the street below. It was filled with life, but its life seemed alien, remote. His ears picked up the faint sound of the shower, and he knew that his thoughts would always hereafter be filled with the memory of how close he had come to happiness.
He heard the bathroom door open softly, but he didn't dare look. His heart was too heavy. Then he heard the soft, tremulous voice. "I've got soap in my eyes. Come look at the scales. Don't look at me. I'm dripping wet."
Cornith turned slowly, caught his breath. The vision that met his eyes was a loveliness transcending his wildest dreams. The coruscating beads of water were like flashing jewels adorning a soft pink and white body, vitally alive and yet trembling in fear. He stepped quickly to the scales and looked.
A warm glow started at his feet and rushed upward, making him giddy as it swept over his neck and face and on into his brain. The scales showed a hundred and twenty-three pounds and four one-hundredths of an ounce. He glanced up. She had wiped the soap out of her eyes and those azure orbs were flashing a surge of joy unparalleled.
Cornith sprang to take her in his arms, but she leaped away, raced to the bathroom, slammed the door and locked it.
"Come on out," he said. "You saw the scales."
"I'm not coming out," she called back, "until you figure out how I did it."
"Don't be silly."