attraction was the redundance of their figures.  For all the immense profusion of varied beauty which the women displayed, they had certainly two qualities in common—­they all wore elaborate evening dress; they were all photographed to display to the utmost advantage their physical attractions.  Otherwise, thought Mavis, there was surely nothing to differentiate them from the usual run of comely womanhood.  Always a lover of beauty, Mavis eagerly scanned the photographs in the book.  To her tense imagination, it was like wandering in a highly cultivated garden, where there were flowers of every hue, from the timid shrinking violet and the rosebud, to the over-blown peony, to greet the senses.  It was as if she wandered from one to the next, admiring and drinking in the distinctive beauty of each.  There were supple, fair-petalled daffodils, white-robed daisies, scarlet-lipped poppies, and black pansies, instinct with passion, all waiting to be culled.  It seemed as if a paradise of glad loveliness had been gathered for her delight.  They were all dew-bespangled, sun-worshipping, wind-free, as if their only purpose was to languish for some thirsty bee to come and sip greedily of their sweetness.  As Mavis looked, another quality, which had previously eluded her, seemed to attach itself to each and all of the flowers, a quality that their calculated shyness now made only the more apparent.  It was as if at some time in their lives their petals had been one and all ravaged by some relentless wind; as if, in consequence, they had all dedicated themselves to decorate the altars raised to the honour and glory of love.

Mavis, also, noticed that beneath each photograph was written a number in big figures.  Then the book repelled her.  She put it down, not before she noticed that, scattered about the room, were other albums filled presumably in the same way as was the other.  She had no mind to look at these, being already surfeited with beauty; also, she was more than ever aware of the sense of disquiet which had troubled her before.  To escape once more from this, she walked to the piano, opened it, and let her fingers stray over the keys.  She had not touched a piano for many weeks, consequently her fingers were stiff and awkward; but in a few minutes they got back something of their old proficiency:  almost unconsciously, she strayed into an Andante of Chopin’s.

The strange, appealing, almost unearthly beauty of the movement soothed her jangled nerves; before she was aware of it, she was enrapt with the morbid majesty of the music.  Although she was dimly conscious that someone had come into the room, she went on playing.

The next definite thing that she knew was that two strong arms were placed about her body, that she was being kissed hotly and passionately upon eyes and lips.

“You darling; you darling; you perfect darling!” cried a voice.

Mavis was too overcome by the suddenness of the assault to know what to be at; her first instinct was to deliver herself from the defiling touch of her assailant.  She freed herself with an effort, to see that it was Mr Williams who had so grossly insulted her.  Blind rage, shame, outraged pride all struggled for expression; blind rage predominated.