It was hard to get to sleep. What an eventful party it
had been! Since supper time she seemed to have lived years and
years. She had been a success even though Raymond Bonner had said--
that. Anyway, Jim was a better dancer than Raymond, and handsomer
and nicer--besides the uniform. He was more poetical too--much more.
What was it he had said about liking her? . . . better dancer than
any other. . . Funny she should feel so happy after Raymond . . .
Maybe she was just a vain, inconstant, coquettish . . .
She strove to focus on the possibility of her frailty. She turned
her face to the window. Through the lace curtains shone the
moonlight, the gleaming path along which she had so often flown out
to be a fairy. But to-night she didn't wish to be a fairy; just to
be herself . . .
The moonlight flowed in and engulfed her, a great, eternal, golden-
white mystery. And its mystery became her mystery. She was the
mystery of the moon, of the universe, of Life. And the tune in her
heart, which could take on so many bewildering variations, became
the Chant of Mystery. How interesting, how tremendously, ineffably
interesting was Life! She slept.
Pages:
118
119
120
121
122
123
124
125
126
127
128
129
130
131
132
133
134
135
136
137
138
139
140
141
142