She had the appearance of being frank, open, and lovable, just as she
had that appearance of culture which every woman of her type gets from
the cultivated class of men they prey upon. Pet her, and she murmured
softly in the king's best English: scratch her, and, like the rock that
Moses struck, she burst forth in a surprising torrent. Without making
others merry, she was eternally merry. Without ever feeling the agony of
thirst, she instilled thirst. A thousand broken-hearted women might have
looked on her as an avenging sword, if the sword hadn't been two-edged.
She had a motto, a creed, a philosophy, packed into four words: "Be
loved; never love."

If both parts of this creed had not been equally imperative, Lewis might
have escaped. His aloofness was what doomed him. Like all big-game
hunters, Folly loved the rare trophy, the thing that's hard to get. By
keeping his distance, Lewis pressed the spring that threw her into
action. Almost instinctively she concentrated on him all her forces of
attraction, and Folly's forces of attraction, once you pressed the
spring, were simply dynamic. Beneath that soft, breathing skin of hers
was such store of vitality, intensity, and singleness of purpose as only
the vividly monochromatic ever bring to bear on life.

Lewis, unconsciously in very deep waters indeed, reached London in a
state of ineffable happiness. Not so Folly. Lewis had awakened in her
desire. With her, desire was merely the prelude to a natural
consummation. Folly was worried because one of the first and last things
Lewis had said to her was, "Darling, when will you marry me?" To which
she had replied, but without avail, "Let's think about that afterward."

When Lewis reached the flat on a Saturday night, he did not have to tell