Wholesome with that charming and rounded slenderness of perfect health
there yet seemed no limit to her capacity for the enjoyment of all
things for which an appetite exists--pleasures, mental or physical--it
did not seem to matter.
She adored walking; to exercise her body delighted her. Always she ate
and drank with a relish that fascinated; she was mad about the theatre
and about music:--and whatever she chanced to be doing she did with
all the vigour, intelligence, and pleasure of which she was capable,
throwing into it her entire heart and soul.
It led to temporary misunderstandings--particularly with the men she
met--even in the small circle of friends whom she received and with
whom she went about. Arthur Ensart entirely mistook her until fiercely
set right one evening when alone with him; James Allys also listened
to a curt but righteously impassioned discourse which he never forgot.
Hargrave's gentlemanly and suavely villainous intentions, when finally
comprehended, became radically modified under her coolly scornful
rebuke. Welter, fat and sentimental, never was more than tiresomely
saccharine; Ferris and Lyndhurst betrayed symptoms of being
misunderstood, but it was a toss-up as to the degree of seriousness in
their intentions.
[Illustration: "Once more, the old happy companionship began."] The intentions of men are seldom more serious than they have to be.
But they all were helplessly, hopelessly caught in the magic, gossamer
web of Athalie's beauty and personal charm; and some merely kicked and
buzzed and some tried to rend the frail rainbow fabric, and some
struggled silently against they knew not what--themselves probably.
And some, like Dane, hung motionless, enmeshed, knowing that to
struggle was futile. And some, like Clive, were still lying under her
jewelled feet in the very centre of the sorcery, so far silent and
unstirring, awaiting to see whether the grace of God would fall upon
them or the coup-de-grace that ended all. Eventually, however, like
all other men, Clive gave signs of life and impatience.
"Can't you love me, Athalie?" he said abruptly one night, when they
had returned from the theatre and he had already taken his leave--and
had come back from the door to take it again more tenderly. The girl
let him kiss her.
She, in her clinging, sparkling evening gown was standing by her
crystal, the fingers of one hand lightly poised upon it, looking down
at it.
"Love you, Clive," she repeated in smiling surprise. "Why, I do, you
dear, foolish boy. I've admitted it to you. Also haven't you just
kissed me?"
"I know.... But I mean--couldn't you love me above all other
men--above everything in this world--"