“Amory, do take down your hair!” they suddenly implored.
Amory grumbled sweetly. It was such a bother to put it up again, she said. But Cosimo, starting from his seat against Dorothy’s knees, cried, “Oh yes, Amory!” and took a fresh place by her feet. “With the firelight through it it should be just unbelievable!” he cried excitedly.... So Amory’s hands went to the great red-gold fir cone; she shook down the heavy plaits; and Cosimo’s fingers parted and disposed them.
“How’s that? Wait—just a minute—it wants just one touch—there!” he said, drawing back.
Cries of admiration broke out. Amory was as hidden by it as a weeping elm is hidden by its leaves.
“Oh—green leaves, most decidedly!” cried Walter Wyron with conviction. “Amory, you really must paint yourself so—none of us could do it—what a sonnet Rossetti would have written!”
“Or Swinburne——”
“Or Baudelaire——!”
“Or Verlaine!”
Rapt they gazed for some moments longer....