For when Florinda got home that night she first washed her head; then ate chocolate creams; then opened Shelley.  True, she was horribly bored.  What on earth was it about?  She had to wager with herself that she would turn the page before she ate another.  In fact she slept.  But then her day had been a long one, Mother Stuart had thrown the tea-cosy;—­there are formidable sights in the streets, and though Florinda was ignorant as an owl, and would never learn to read even her love letters correctly, still she had her feelings, liked some men better than others, and was entirely at the beck and call of life.  Whether or not she was a virgin seems a matter of no importance whatever.  Unless, indeed, it is the only thing of any importance at all.

Jacob was restless when she left him.

All night men and women seethed up and down the well-known beats.  Late home-comers could see shadows against the blinds even in the most respectable suburbs.  Not a square in snow or fog lacked its amorous couple.  All plays turned on the same subject.  Bullets went through heads in hotel bedrooms almost nightly on that account.  When the body escaped mutilation, seldom did the heart go to the grave unscarred.  Little else was talked of in theatres and popular novels.  Yet we say it is a matter of no importance at all.

What with Shakespeare and Adonais, Mozart and Bishop Berkeley—­choose whom you like—­the fact is concealed and the evenings for most of us pass reputably, or with only the sort of tremor that a snake makes sliding through the grass.  But then concealment by itself distracts the mind from the print and the sound.  If Florinda had had a mind, she might have read with clearer eyes than we can.  She and her sort have solved the question by turning it to a trifle of washing the hands nightly before going to bed, the only difficulty being whether you prefer your water hot or cold, which being settled, the mind can go about its business unassailed.

But it did occur to Jacob, half-way through dinner, to wonder whether she had a mind.

They sat at a little table in the restaurant.

Florinda leant the points of her elbows on the table and held her chin in the cup of her hands.  Her cloak had slipped behind her.  Gold and white with bright beads on her she emerged, her face flowering from her body, innocent, scarcely tinted, the eyes gazing frankly about her, or slowly settling on Jacob and resting there.  She talked: 

“You know that big black box the Australian left in my room ever so long ago? ...  I do think furs make a woman look old. ...  That’s Bechstein come in now. ...  I was wondering what you looked like when you were a little boy, Jacob.”  She nibbled her roll and looked at him.

“Jacob.  You’re like one of those statues. ...  I think there are lovely things in the British Museum, don’t you?  Lots of lovely things ...” she spoke dreamily.  The room was filling; the heat increasing.  Talk in a restaurant is dazed sleep-walkers’ talk, so many things to look at—­so much noise—­other people talking.  Can one overhear?  Oh, but they mustn’t overhear us.