He saw her, dripping with rosy pearls, rise out of the lagoon in the dawn light: he saw her flashing to and fro among the coco palms in the moonshine: he saw her breasting the hurricane, her body as full of grace and beauty as the Winged Victory of the Louvre. "Bring him back with you. Her cogitations were dissipated by a knock on the door. A victim of one of those mental typhoons that scatter irretrievably the barriers of instinct and breeding; and he had gone on the rocks all in a moment. It was not for a week or a month. She could almost smell her mother’s attar of white roses and lemon verbena with the memory of the story. There was something indeed holding the whole species back from the imaginable largeness of life. “You call yourself an artist— but you have no temperament.
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