It
never occurred to him that the wall might be surrounding himself. He had
entirely forgotten that first visit to Gila in the Mephistophelian
garments, with the red light filling all the unholy atmosphere. There
had never been so much as a hint of a red light in the room since he
said he did not like it. The lamp-shade seemed to have disappeared. In
its place was a great wrought-metal thing of old silver jeweled with
opalescent medallions.
But it was part of the deliberate intention of Gila to lead him on and
yet hold him at a distance. She had read him aright. He was a man with
an old-fashioned ideal of woman, and the citadel of his heart was only
to be taken by such a woman. Therefore, she would be such a woman until
she had won. After that? What mattered it? Let time plan the issue! She
would have attained her desire!
But the down-drooping lashes hid no unconscious sweetness. There was
sinister gleam in those eyes as she looked at herself over his shoulder
when they passed the great mirror set in a cabinet door. There was
deliberate intention in the way the little hand lay lightly in the
strong one. There was not a movement of the dreamy dance she was
teaching him, not a touch of the little satin slipper, that did not have
its nicely calculated intention to draw him on. The sooner she could
make him yield and crush her to him, the sooner he declared his passion
for her, that much nearer would her ambitions be to their fulfilment.
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