A stout female stood in the aperture, an oil lamp in her hand. He felt his heart beat faster and faster—his self-restraint slipping away. Flesh and blood, vivid, alluring; she was no longer the symbol, therefore she had become, as in the twinkling of an eye, an utter stranger. “Then why the devil,” he demanded, “do you let me stand you dinners and the opera—and why do you come to a cabinet particuliar with me?” He became radiant with anger. Capes scored back with an uncompromising vigor that was his way of complimenting her intelligence.
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