There were times when I deceived myself most admirably;

there were times when I plainly saw the truth. During the former I

believed that my happiness lay in marrying her, but in the latter I

recognised that a girl who meant nothing to my better self had grown of

a sudden painfully yet exquisitely desirable. But even during the

ascendancy of the latter physical mood, she had only to seat herself

beside the harp and sing, for the former state to usurp its place, I

watched, I listened, and I yielded. Her voice, aided by the soft

plucking of the strings, completed my defeat. Now, strangest of all, I

must add one other tiling, and I will add it without comment. For

though sure of its truth, I would not dwell upon it. And it is this:

that in her singing, as also in her playing, in the “colour” of her

voice as also in the very attitude and gestures of her figure as she

sat beside the instrument, there lay, though marvellously hidden,

something gross. It woke a response of something in myself, hitherto

unrecognized, that was similarly gross….

It was in the empty billiard-room when the climax came, a calm

evening of late July, the dusk upon the lawn, and most of the

house-party already gone upstairs to dress for dinner. I had been

standing beside the open window for some considerable time, motionless,

and listening idly to the singing of a thrush or blackbird in the

shrubberies—when I heard the faint twanging of the harp-strings in the

room behind me, and turning, saw that Marion had entered and was there

beside the instrument. At the same moment she saw me, rose from the

harp and came forward. During the day she had kept me at a distance. I

was hungry for her voice and touch; her presence excited me—and yet I

was half afraid.

“What! Already dressed!” I exclaimed, anxious to avoid a talk a deux. “I must hurry then, or I shall be later than usual.”

I crossed the room towards the door, when she stopped me with her

eyes.

“Do you really mean to say you don’t know the difference between an

evening frock and—and this,” she answered lightly, holding out the

skirt in her fingers for me to touch. And in the voice was that hint of

a sensual caress that, I admit, bewildered both my will and judgment.

She was very close and her fragrance came on me with her breath, like

the perfume of the summer garden. I touched the material carelessly; it

was of softest smooth white serge. It seemed I touched herself that lay

beneath it. And at that touch some fire of lightning ran through every

vein.

“How stupid of me,” I said quickly, making to go past her, “but it’s

white, you see, and in this dim light I——”

“A man’s idea of an evening frock is always white, I suppose, or

black.” She laughed a little. “I’m not coming to dinner to-night,” she

added, sitting down to the harp. “I’ve got a headache and thought I

might soothe it with a little music. I didn’t know any one was here. I

thought I was alone.”

Thus, deftly, having touched a chord of pity in me, she began to

play; her voice followed; dinner and dressing, the house-party and my

mother’s guests, were all forgotten. I remember that you looked in,

your eyes touched with a suggestive and melancholy smile, and as

quickly closed the door again. But even that little warning failed to

help me. I sat down on the sofa facing her, the world forgotten. And,

as I listened to her singing and to the sweet music of the harp, the

spell, it seemed, of some ancient beauty stole upon my spirit. The

sound of her soft voice reduced my resistance to utter impotence. An

aggressive passion took its place. The desire for contact, physical

contact, became a vehement aching that I scarcely could restrain, and

my arms were hungry for her. Shame and repugnance touched me faintly

for a moment, but at once died away again.