Part 30 (1/2)

”And they still say that no man knows women,” she said. She paused and looked back at the fragments of the statue. Her lips twisted. ”Even boys,” she added, ”pick out our naked souls and slap them in our faces.”

As they walked slowly toward the flat, Vi said:

”I know why you had to ask that question. I'm glad you did. You were misjudging Lew. But you can be sure of one thing: no one but us three ever saw that statue; I know now that no one but just Lew and myself were ever meant to see it. He didn't want to model me that way. When I asked for it, he hesitated, then suddenly he gave in.” She paused for a moment, then she added, ”I believe it's part of a man's job to know when to trample on women.”

CHAPTER x.x.xIII

It was night at the flat. There was just chill enough in the air to justify a cozy little fire. Through the open windows came the low hum of London, subdued by walls and distance to the pitch of a friendly accompaniment to talk. In two great leathern chairs, half facing each other, Vi and Leighton sat down, the fire between them.

They had been silent for a long time. Vi had been twisting her fingers, staring at them. Her lips were half open and mobile. She was even flushed. Suddenly she locked her hands and leaned forward.

”Grapes,” she said without a drawl, ”I have seen myself. It is terrible.

Nothing is left.”

Leighton rose and stepped into his den. He came back slowly with two pictures in his hands.

”Look at these,” he said. ”If you were ten years older, you'd only have to glance at them, and they'd open a door to memory.”

Vi gazed at the pictures, small paintings of two famous Spanish dancers.

One was beautiful, languorous, carnal; the other was neither languorous nor carnal despite her wonderful body, and she was certainly not beautiful. Vi laid the second picture down and held the first. Then almost unconsciously she reached out her hand for the discarded picture.

Gradually the face that was not beautiful drew her until attention grew into absorption. The portrait of the languorous beauty fell to her lap and then slipped to the floor, face down. Leighton laughed.

Vi glanced up.

”Why?” she asked.

”Oh, nothing,” said Leighton, ”except that the effect those pictures had on you is an exact parallel to the way the two originals influenced men.

For that----” Leighton waved a hand at the picture on the floor--”men gave all they possessed in the way of worldly goods, and then Wondered why they'd done it. But for her--the one you 're looking at----”

He broke off. ”You never heard of De Larade? De Larade spent all of his short life looking for animate beauty, and wors.h.i.+ping it when he found it. But he died leaning too far over a balcony to pick a flower for the Woman you're staring at.”

”Why?” asked Vi again. ”You knew her, of course. Tell me about her.”

”I'm going to,” said Leighton. ”The first time I saw her on the stage she seemed to me merely an extra-graceful and extra-sensuous Spanish dancer. Nothing to rave over, nothing to stimulate a jaded palate. I could have met her; I decided I didn't want to. Later on I did meet her, not in her dressing-room, but at a house where she was the last person I expected to see.”

Leighton picked up a cigarette, lighted it, and sat down.

”The place ought to have protected her,” he continued, ”but when you've seen two thirds of a woman's body, it takes a lot of atmosphere to make you forget it. We were in a corner by ourselves. I can't remember just what I did. Probably laid my hand on her arm with intent. Well, Vi, she didn't thrill the way your blood and mine has thrilled an occasion. She just shrank. Then she frowned, and the frown made her look really ugly.

'Don't forget,' she whispered to me, 'that I'm a married woman. I never forget it--not for one minute.'”

Leighton blew a cloud of smoke at the fire. It twisted into wreaths and whirled up the chimney.

”Quite a facer, eh?” he went on. ”But it didn't down me. It only woke me up. 'Have you ever had a man sit down with you beside him and hold you so,' I asked her, 'with your back to his knees, your head in his hands and his eyes and his mouth close to yours--a man that wasn't trying to get to a single goal, but was content to linger with you in the land of dreams?'

”Believe me, Vi, the soul of a pure woman that every man thinks he has a right to make love to is the shyest of all souls. Such a woman sheds innuendo and actions with the proverbial ease of a duck disposing of a shower. But just words--the right words--will bring tears to her eyes.

Well, I'd stumbled on the right words.”