"Quilt Arnold, is that you?" "It is, Sir," sputtered the janizary. But not a word to him of Lady Trafford's absence—mind that. She came to her one day and pulled on her apron. ‘I’ve never before made love at pistol point. Nice, of course. He forgot for the moment his own self-pity, the egotism of his own passionate love. Perhaps this was the real turning point: the hour in which the disordered mind began permanently to readjust itself. She had fallen into it naturally, the only expression of the dance she had ever seen or known, and that a stolen sweet. Nature is a mother; her sympathies have always been feminist, and she has tempered the man to the shorn woman.
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