In the great bedroom on a spot of the carpet under the chandelier—which had no decoration whatsoever—stood an exquisite Spirit of Youth, more insubstantial than Spring morning mist, yet most alive; her lips scarce parted—her skin like white hawthorn shadowed by pink—in her eyes the modesty of withdrawal from Love—in her heart the surrender to it. During those distracting hours never did she move nor did her look once change: she waiting there—waiting for some one to come—waiting.
Waiting.