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Her eyes strained far beyond the stars into an unknown glory, and her heart throbbed with a passionate desire for unknown things. Of what nature they might be she did not dream. Not love. Zora Middlemist had forsworn it. Not the worship of a man. She had vowed by all the saints in her hierarchy that no man should ever again enter her life. Her soul revolted against the unutterable sex.
"I am so sorry," she repeated. "Please ask for it back. What did you want me to play?" "I don't know. It doesn't matter, so long as you've put it somewhere." "But I've put it en plein on Seventeen," she urged. "I ought to have thought what I was doing." "Why think?" he murmured. Mrs. Middlemist turned square to the table and fixed her eyes on the staked louis.
A grain of mustard seed of faith among them would save me thousands of pounds a year. Not that I want to roll in money, Mrs. Middlemist. I'm not an avaricious man. But a great business requires capital and to spend money merely in flogging the invertebrate is waste desperate waste." It was the first time that Zora had heard the note of depression.
But his faith felt a quiver all through its structure, just as a great building does at the first faint shock of earthquake. "What made you say that about Zora Middlemist?" he asked when he had finished. "I don't know," replied Septimus. "It seemed to be right to say it. I know when I get things into my head there appears to be room for nothing else in the world. One takes things for granted.
We must keep it close, whatever we do. 'You haven't told anybody else? 'Not a soul! Horace lied stoutly. They were surprised by the sudden opening of the door; a servant appeared to clear the table. Fanny reprimanded her for neglecting to knock. 'We may as well go into the drawing-room. There's nobody particular. Only Mrs. Middlemist, and Mr. Crewe, and
Oldrieve, on whom there occasionally flashed an eternal verity. "I hate men. I hate the touch of them the very sight of them. I'm going to have nothing more to do with them for the rest of my natural life. My dear mother!" and her voice broke, "haven't I had enough to do with men and marriage?" "All men aren't like Edward Middlemist," Mrs. Oldrieve argued as she counted the rows of her knitting.
There are thousands and thousands of them, and most of them' she lowered her voice 'know as much about cut and material as they do about stockbroking. Do you twig? People like Mrs. Middlemist and Mrs. Murch. They spend, most likely, thirty or forty pounds a year on their things, and we could dress them a good deal more smartly for half the money.
The commonplace summons from the outer world brought with dismaying suddenness to his mind the practical affairs of life. He was a ruined man. The thought staggered him. How could he say to Zora Middlemist: "I am a beggar. I want to marry you"? She came to him with both hands outstretched, her instinctive gesture when her heart went out, and used his Christian name for the first time.
Monte Carlo cabmen are unerring in their divination of the Anglo-Saxon. Why not? The suggestion awoke in her an instant craving for the true beauty of the land. It was unconventional, audacious, crazy. But, again, why not? Zora Middlemist was answerable for her actions to no man or woman alive. Why not drink a great draught of the freedom that was hers?
It was the height of the Monte Carlo season and the feathers and diamonds and rouge and greedy eyes and rusty bonnets of all nations confused the sight and paralyzed thought. Yet among all the women of both worlds Zora Middlemist stood out remarkable. As Septimus Dix afterwards explained, the rooms that evening contained a vague kind of conglomerate woman and Zora Middlemist.
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