What's Bred in the Bone

in throwing Elma and Granville Kelmscott into one another's company at all, and in the second place Elma had talked much under her very nose, for hal

fore committing herself to an acceptance, whether that dange

ntest little touch of artistic redness, and was trimmed and dressed with provoking nicety. He was an artist too; and girls nowadays, you know, have such an unaccountable way of falling in love wit

to the sympathetic ear of the Companion of the Mi

time I was right, or very near it. But this afternoon I've had an opportunity of watching them both together, and

d asked, staring her hard in t

w I know it. But whatever we do we must be careful not to let Elma and the young man get thrown together again. I should say myself it wou

of Cyril Waring. He looked so handsome and so manly that afternoon at th

n its socket very low, and the house was still, and the rain pattered hard on the roof overhe

. She sat and mused with her hands crossed on her lap. She s

e remembered every glance, every look he had darted at her. She thought of that faint pressure of his hand as he said farewell. The tender blush came back to her brown cheek once more with maidenly shame as sh

Could this be a dream? Some strange impulse made her glide forward and stand for a minute or two irresolute, in the middle of the room. Then she turned round, once, twice, thrice, half unconsciously. She turned round, wondering to herself all the while what this s

y. She was posturing she knew, but why she had no idea. It all came upon her as suddenly and as uncontrollably as a blush. She was whirling around the room, now slow, now fast, but always with her arms held out

seemed to be catching her round the waist, and twisting her about, and making her spin headlong over the floor through this wi

fort oppressed her arms. She hadn't everything she required for this solitary orgy. Something more w

must have something to fill them. Something alive, lithe, curling, sinuous. These wavings and swayings, to this side and to that, seemed so meaningless and void-without so

moved over to the chest of drawers still rhythmically and with set steps, but to the phantom strain of some unheard low music. The music was running vaguely through her head all the time-wild Aeolian music-it sounded like a rude tune on a harp or zither. And surely the cymbals clashed now and again overhea

p his abode within her? What made her spin and twirl about like this-irresponsibly, unintentionally, irrepressibly,

was all Cyril Waring. And yet

l tread, to the bars of the internal music that rang loud through her brain, and began opening one drawer after another in

acutely. They were dead, dead, dead, so close and clinging! Go further! Go further! At last she opened the bottom drawer of all, and her eye fell askance upon a feather boa, curled up at the bottom-soft, smooth, and long; a winding, coiling, serpentine boa. In a second, she had fallen upon it bodily with greedy hands, and was twisting

h it, the lifeless thing seemed to glide from her grasp in curling folds and elude her; at others, she caught it round the neck like a snake, and twisted it about her arm, or let it twine and encircle her writ

e movements. Sardanapalus, Sardanapalus, Sardanapalus! The very name seemed to link itself with the music in her head. It coursed with her blood. It rang through her brain. And

r. It was no more she than that boa there was a snake. A real live snake. Oh, for a real live snak

id the spirit; and s

ste

ick in the socket flickered and died; but Elma danced on, unheeding, in the darkness. Dance, dance, dance, dance; never mind for the light! Oh

port of fear and remorse, she danced on irresponsibly. Check herself she couldn't, let her do what she would. Her whole being seemed to go forth into t

tigue. She staggered and fell. Too weary to undress, she flung herself upon the bed, just as she was, clothes and al