His kernel
of the husk was still a siren, but a siren with a heart, with an
exquisite imagination, with a fragrance of dreams about her, a lilt of
eternal music in her voice, the beaming, wonder of things unearthly in
her eyes. Poor Robin! Lady Holme found it in her heart to pity him as she
realised herself. But then she turned her pity aside and concentrated it
elsewhere. The egoism of her was not dead though the hidden woman had
sprung up in vivid life. Her intellect was spurred into energy by the
suffering of her pride and of her heart. Memory was restless and full of
the passion of recall.
She remembered the night when she softly drew up the hood of her
dressing-gown above her head and, rocking herself to and fro, murmured
the "Allah-Akbar" of a philosophic fatalist--"I will live for the day. I
will live for the night." What an absurd patter that was on the lips of a
woman. And she remembered the conversation with Fritz that had preceded
her monologue. She had asked him then whether he could love her if her
beauty were taken from her. It had never occurred to her that while her
beauty still remained her spell upon him might be weakened, might be
broken. That it was broken now she did not say to herself. All she did
say to herself was that she must strike an effective blow against this
impertinent woman. She had some pride but not enough to keep her passive.
She was not one of those women who would rather lose all they have than
struggle to keep it.
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