sessed
by the far fiercer monogamous passion of achieved and final love, which
is disillusioned concerning mystical draughts, but knows that to take
the bread of the beloved and cast it to the dogs is sin. She had
acquired that knowledge, which is the only valuable kind of chastity
worth having, that night when she had been forced to commit that
profanation. Shading her eyes while there rushed over her the
recollection of a pallid face looking yellow as it bent over the lamp,
she reflected that even if she conquered this life-long indisposition to
reply, the story was too monstrous to be told. It would not be believed.
This girl would look at her under her brows and make that Scotch noise
again and think her a liar as well as loose. So she sat silent, letting
Ellen dislike her.

She said at length, "Let's go and have coffee in the lounge."

"I'm sure we don't need it," murmured Ellen, as a tribute to the
magnificence of the meal.

Crossing the room was a terrible business. She hoped people were not
staring at her because she was with a woman whom they could perhaps see
had once been bad. No doubt there were signs by which experienced people
could tell. Richard's presence seemed all at once to have set behind the
rim of the earth.

They sat down at last on a kind of wide marble platform, which looked
down on another restaurant where there dined even more glorious people,
none of whom wore hats, who seemed indeed to have stripped for their
fray with appetite. They were nice-looking, some of them, but not like
Richard. She looked proudly round just for the pleasure of seeing that
there was not his like anywhere here, and found herself under the gaze
of Richard's eyes, set in Richard's mother's face. Doubt left her. Here
was beauty and generosity and courage and brilliance. Here was the
quality of life she loved. She found herself saying eagerly, that she
might hear that adorable voice and hoping that it would speak such
strong words as he used: "Yes, Marion?"

"Ellen, when will you marry Richard?"

"We've talked it over," said Ellen, with a certain solemn fear. "We
think we'll wait. Six months. Out of respect for mother."

"But, my dear, your mother won't get any pleasure out of Richard being
kept waiting. She'd like you to settle down and be happy."

Ellen looked before her with blue eyes that seemed as if she saw an
altar, and as if Marion were insisting on talking loud in church. "I
feel I'd like to wait," she