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Your step is laughter and song. Your hair is
a torrent of starless night. The sun is your lover, you god. He takes
joy in your perfection. Your slender body palpitates with his
imprisoned beams. He has moulded your limbs and kissed your smooth skin
in the days when you . . . nevermore will you whiten those kisses. . . ."
"It won't do," he sadly reflected, laying down the pen. "The adaptation
is too palpable. Why does everybody anticipate my ideas? The fact is, I
have nothing to say. I can only feel. Everything went right, so long as
I was in love with myself. Now everything goes wrong."
Then he remembered Keith's pompous exhortation.
"Find yourself! You know the Cave of Mercury! Climb down, one night of
full moon--"
"There is something in what he says. This very night I'll go."
It was particularly hard for him that evening. The Duchess was dining
with a party at Madame Steynlin's; it was an open secret that the
entertainment would end in a moonlight excursion on the water; she
would not return till very late.


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