She rocked softly. She unfolded and folded the night-moth fan
softly. She touched the handkerchief to her rosy youthful lips
softly. The south wind blew in her face softly. Everything about
her was softness, all her movements were delicate and refined.
Even the early soft beauty of her figure was not yet lost. (When a
girl of nineteen, she had measured herself by the proportions of
the ideal Venus; and the ordeal had left her with a girdle of
golden reflections.)
But if some limner had been told the whole truth of what she was
and been requested to imagine a fitting body for such a soul, he
would never have painted Mrs. Conyers as she looked. Nature is not
frank in her characterizations, lest we remain infants in
discernment. She allows foul to appear fair, and bids us become
educated in the hardy virtues of insight and prudence. Education
as yet had advanced but little; and the deepest students in the
botany of women have been able to describe so few kinds that no
man, walking through the perfumed enchanted wood, knows at what
moment he may step upon or take hold of some unknown deadly variety.
As the moments passed, she stopped rocking and peered toward the
front gate under the lamp-post, saying to herself:
"He is late."
At last the gate was gently opened and gently shut.
"Ah," she cried, leaning back in her chair smiling and satisfied.
Then she sat up rigid. A change passed over her such as comes over
a bird of prey when it draws its feathers in flat against its body
to lessen friction in the swoop.
Pages:
35
36
37
38
39
40
41
42
43
44
45
46
47
48
49
50
51
52
53
54
55
56
57
58
59