Her hands did not cease from moving while I spoke. Now, in my silence, they moved. They clasped in anguish on her breast. They went to her brow. They tremored at her side. They were like flowers tremulous in a flame. She sat, swaying gently, like an agéd woman.
I was silent. Her head turned, and she saw me. The glaze in her eyes grew as what she knew was measured with her sight. Her body was rigid. Her pain was freezing her. She swayed no more. And her hands were lifeless.
I knelt before her. But I did not dare to touch her. I put forth my hands, but they remained suspended. For I did not dare to touch her.
“Mildred,” I said, “save me.”
She watched my hands, as if she wondered what these suppliant palms were going to do.
“There is power in me, Mildred. And power, if it is happy, is divine. Do you now know how I have needed you? Have I not won you? Save me!”
She watched my hands. They covered my face an instant. I stood up. And I stood over her.
“Mildred, I have been ruthless. Yes. More ruthless than my mind would ever have conceived. Is that a weakness in me? I loved my parents. They were the only human beings in my life. I was ruthless, because I was in love with Beauty. I have used truth ... as it was revealed to me, vastly beyond our miserable sphere ... I have used truth, because I was in love with Beauty.”
Her face was blanched as if some fire had seared it. Her eyes were like stones. Her beauty was a mask.
I feared what I saw in her, for it was the worst of myself.