She made her last bid; she stepped back into the moonlight and unwound her veils from about her, standing, palpitating, trembling under the possession of her strange love.
Beautiful! She was a dream—yet beside her beauty the pure loveliness of Damaris Hethencourt would have shown like the work of an Old Master beside a coarse copy.
But what will you?
Some like the snow-peaks and some the stretching plain; others the turbulent ocean, and yet others the farmyard with its rural sights and sounds. Thank goodness for it! Just imagine the lamentation throughout the world if love, like the couturière set fashions for the seasons!
"Love dictates that women, this season, shall resemble the dazzling peaks of the Himalayas."
And we looking as the majority of us do look!
Not that we should really be downhearted about it. Not a bit. Only let the decree go forth, and every one of us, at the end of a week or so, would by hook or by crook have acquired a distinctly peak-like appearance.
But Kelham looked up, looked long, and smiled.
"You are beautiful—very beautiful—the most beautiful woman I have seen—save one."
Zulannah recognised her defeat and in a whirl of rage and scented veils disappeared through the talik palms.