"No," she said, "I do not wish to know. Light is swift; Thought is swifter; but Love is the swiftest thing in Life, and if it is now travelling toward me, it will strike me soon enough to suit me."
Stafford leaned forward and arranged the cushions for her; she sank back among them, her dark eyes still on us.
"Hours are slow," she said; "years are slower, but the slowest thing in Life is Love. If it is now travelling toward me, it will reach me soon enough to suit me."
"I," said Duane, "prefer quick action, O Athalie, the Beautiful!"[7]
"Athalie, lovely and incomparable," said Stafford, "I, also, prefer quick action."
"Play Scheherazade for us, Athalie," I said, "else we slay you with our compliments."
A voice or two from distant corners repeated the menace. A match flared and a fresh cigarette glowed faintly.
Somebody brought the tripod with its crystal sphere and set it down in the middle of the room. Its mild rays fell on the marble basin of the tiny fountain,—Duane's offering. The goldfish which I had given her were floating there fast asleep.
When we had placed sweetmeats and cigarettes convenient for her, we all, in turn, with circumstance and ceremony, bent over her left hand where it rested listlessly among the cushions, saluting the emerald on her third finger with our lips.
Then the dim circle closed around her, nearer.