“Grippe—in the winter,” Sidney Martin said, suddenly feeling ashamed of acknowledging it—before that splendid creature whose presence seemed such a reproach to all less superbly well than herself. It was a bad sign, had Sidney been looking for such subtleties, that Vashti’s magnificence of physique impressed him as a reproach against imperfection, rather than as a triumph of the race. It was so with her always. She gave others a chilling sense of what the human “might have been” rather than an inspiring perception of what the human “might be.” Surely the spirit is subtly strong, giving each individual an aura of his own which may stimulate those who enter it like the piney ozone of the mountains, or stifle them as does the miasmic breath of a morass.
“Well—if you must really go——” said Mabella.
Supper was over—a supper presided over by Temperance Tribbey, and justifying thoroughly her remarks upon her capability as a purveyor. Sidney was taking leave at the front door preparatory to his departure for the station.
“Yes—don’t keep him any longer, girls. He’ll miss his train. It is sun-down now; another dry sun-down at that! It’s killing weather. Well, good bye—we’ll look for you Monday.”
“Yes, on Monday,” said Mabella’s treble.
“On Monday,” echoed Vashti’s contralto.
“On Monday,” repeated Sidney, raising his hat and turning away, and the voices of the three blent even as their lives were to do.
At the gate Sidney turned; Mabella had vanished promptly to adorn herself against the arrival of Lanty. The old man had gone off to the stables.
Vashti stood alone, her figure erect beside the Corinthian pillar of the old colonial porch. The rigid line of the column accentuated the melting curves of shoulder and hip. Lighted by the yellow after-glow she seemed transfigured to his glamoured fancy. He bared his head, and the goddess raised her hand in farewell. He passed down the road in a dream, hardly noting Lanty, as he rode past him to where Vashti waited in the after-glow.