He saw the High Council
standing with bowed heads, like the necessary archangels in an old
painting; he caught the flash of the turquoise-blue ephod of the
head of the religious order, as the benediction was pronounced by
its wearer. And through it all he said to himself that all would be
well if only she understood, if only she had the supreme
self-consciousness to play the game. After all he knew her so
little. He was certain of her exquisite, playful fancy, but had she
imagination? Would she see the value of the moment and watch herself
moving through it? Or would she live it with that feminine,
unhumourous seriousness which is woman's weakness? She had an
exquisite independence, he was certain that she had humour, and he
remembered how alive she had seemed to him, receptive, like a woman
with ten senses. But after all, would not her graceful sanity of
view, that sense of tradition and unerring taste which he so
reverenced, yet handicap her now and prevent her from daring
whatever she must dare?
Amory was beside himself.
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