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

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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--"




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