Gently he smoothed her hair, while the love of his age went out to her in her extremity. He was torn as she was torn.
II
After quite a while Clarinda arose from beside her father, and went back up the stairs. Her mother continued to stride about the rooms, giving orders and placing things as she would have them. Clarinda went to prepare herself for the sacrifice, which she hoped in her heart would not be as terrible as she thought it would be. When she was dressed she placed a wreath of orange blossoms in her hair. Mohammedan-like her face was covered with a long diaphanous veil formed as a yashmac, except it was fastened by gold pins. Clarinda dreamed of freedom. Presently she came from her room dressed as a bride. The house became astir. Her wonderful body swayed, lithe and strong, with perfect undulations. Her youth was paramount.
Beneath her veil, her face was contorted, a deadly pallor overspread it. Her lips trembled and her hands shook slightly. She was cold.
Behind her in unison with her step came immaculate maids who bore her long train. As she advanced to come down the stairs, bridesmaids ran hither and thither, picking up wraps and huge bunches of flowers.
The front doors of the house were thrown open as she came the length of the hall, lined by lackeys in uniform. Wide stood the doors, and the sun of the day in June swept into the spaces. It was sweet with the odor of new-mown hay and it merged with the perfume of the banked-up flowers. The light as it broke in cut arabesques on the rugs.
Clarinda felt the odor of the new-mown hay and the warmth of the sun crept into her soul, burning spaces in her fear.
Beyond the open doors at the beginning of the garden, at this side of the fountain that threw its pellucid waters high into the air, stood an automobile furnished with gleaming glass sides.
Clarinda felt the quiet.
It was broken now and then by an occasional laugh, hysterical in its intensity, a giggling girl, the sob of an old servant, but these interstices seemed only to accentuate the quiet.