She licked his neck, which put him over the top. Her eyes were perhaps a little brighter than usual, the firelight played about her hair, there seemed to him to be a sudden softening of the straight firm mouth. All the money he earned—serving McClintock and the muse—could be laid away. She could still remember his face, the perpetually wet lips that turned down at the sides, his drooping Roman eyes. She was beauty, the key of magic, the teacher of spells, the predictor of wars, and the gate of the future. She pushed at the closer of the two soldiers bearing the precious burden. ’ ‘It is so in a convent, you see,’ she explained airily. He recoiled from the sting. Sheppard, falling on her knees. The windows were still darkened—perhaps she was not home yet. He was unaware that his illness had opened the way to the inherent conscience and that the acquired had been temporarily blanketed, or that there was any ancient fanaticalism in his blood. He sent a speculative glance at the immobile yellow face. And he began also at times to wake at night and think about her.
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