He saw her, dripping with rosy pearls, rise out of the lagoon in the dawn light: he saw her flashing to and fro among the coco palms in the moonshine: he saw her breasting the hurricane, her body as full of grace and beauty as the Winged Victory of the Louvre. Men in this part of the world drink to forget the things they have lost. You must think of this evening, John, sometimes—as a sort of atonement. She tried to imagine herself “getting something,” to project herself as sitting down at a desk and writing, or as returning after her work to some pleasantly equipped and free and independent flat. His own peculiar genius—a miracle key to the hidden things in men's souls—had given him this immediate and astonishing illumination. She, however, had no idea of doing anything of the sort. There came a wild rush of anthropological lore into her brain, a flare of indecorous humor. Always the other things remained. The ladder was now within reach. If only you could see the people who have been to call on me! Sir John has the most absurd ideas, too. Before that came your father didn’t even know you were gone.
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