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For many a woman the conditions for that final erotic avatar "that splendid shamelessness which," as Rafford Pyke says, "is the finest thing in perfect love" never present themselves at all. She is compelled to be to the end of her erotic life, what she must always be at the beginning, a complex and duplex personality, naturally artful.
A rosy flush crept slowly over her fair cheeks and neck. "You shouldn't ask that, Mr. Hartley," she said, in some confusion. "But I will tell you. There is one other but he has no right I have promised him nothing." "His name?" demanded Hartley, sternly. "Townsend." "Rafford Townsend!" exclaimed Hartley, with a grim tightening of his jaw. "How did that man come to know you?
"To be really understood," as Rafford Pyke well says, "to say what she likes, to utter her innermost thoughts in her own way, to cast aside the traditional conventions that gall her and repress her, to have someone near her with whom she can be quite frank, and yet to know that not a syllable of what she says will be misinterpreted or mistaken, but rather felt just as she feels it all how wonderfully sweet is this to every woman, and how few men are there who can give it to her!"
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