their physical attractions. Otherwise, thought Mavis, there was
surely nothing to differentiate them from the usual run of comely
womanhood. Always a lover of beauty, Mavis eagerly scanned the
photographs in the book. To her tense imagination, it was like
wandering in a highly cultivated garden, where there were flowers of
every hue, from the timid shrinking violet and the rosebud, to the
over-blown peony, to greet the senses. It was as if she wandered
from one to the next, admiring and drinking in the distinctive
beauty of each. There were supple, fair-petalled daffodils, white-
robed daisies, scarlet-lipped poppies, and black pansies, instinct
with passion, all waiting to be culled. It seemed as if a paradise
of glad loveliness had been gathered for her delight. They were all
dew-bespangled, sun-worshipping, wind-free, as if their only purpose
was to languish for some thirsty bee to come and sip greedily of
their sweetness. As Mavis looked, another quality, which had
previously eluded her, seemed to attach itself to each and all of
the flowers, a quality that their calculated shyness now made only
the more apparent. It was as if at some time in their lives their
petals had been one and all ravaged by some relentless wind; as if,
in consequence, they had all dedicated themselves to decorate the
altars raised to the honour and glory of love.

Mavis, also, noticed that beneath each photograph was written a
number in big figures. Then the book repelled her. She put it down,
not before she noticed that, scattered about the room, were other
albums filled presumably in the same way as was the other. She had
no mind to look at these, being already surfeited with beauty; also,
she was more than ever aware of the sense of disquiet which had
troubled her before. To escape once more from this, she walked to
the piano, opened it, and let her fingers stray over the keys. She