"Should there have stayed and left a perfect thing,
Nor added to your loveliness a soul.
So had He spared you sharpest suffering;
Dark waves of night that o'er your spirit roll.
And sobs which shake you through the lonely night...."
Where had she read the words? Some literary magazine. Author? Hamilton Fyffe? Was it? Or Fyfe? Remembered she had thought that clever when, very young, she came across it. Someone had scrawled against the margin, "I fear me Fyffe is very inexperienced. No woman without a soul has held a man for long."
Did she want to hold any man for long? Did she ever want to "fall in love"? What bosh it all was—this thirst of milk-blooded girls for the soul-mate.
"It's positively terrifying to see Truth naked," remarked Muriel to her own white reflection. Or was it not better to be free from mental corsets—as well as the ordinary sort? She raised herself on tiptoes, clasping her rounded arms above her head as the thought rippled into merriment across her face: "If Cyprian were my husband and came in now, accidentally, he would apologize and flee, and be too much of a gentleman even to mention it again on our meeting later. He's the type of man who would never forget that though its wife was its wife she was still a 'lady'."
Footsteps, and a knock at her door disturbed these cogitations. A known voice greeted her through it.
"May I come in, Muriel?"
"Oh, is that you, Twinkle? Yes, so far as I'm concerned you can come in. Better leave your gentleman-friend outside on the mat though—for his sake, not for mine."
A thickset, handsome girl entered languidly, took in the situation at a glance and sat down upon the unmade bed.
"You are a One!" Her voice drawled richly. "I suppose I can smoke while you dress?"
"Puff away! I'll have one too while I finish my air-bath. It fills me with optimism to take it in front of the glass."