Now she was comfortable and relaxed; she felt beautiful; the short full skirt of her black gown billowed on the crimson brocade; she idly admired her white hand, lying among the folds. Ralph admired it, too, and covered it with his own.
She smiled at him. "Unhand me, villain. You know I'm another's."
"I know it amuses you to say so."
The dim light in the room, yellow and thick as honey, showed a tapestry of white unicorns in the forest, sea-water-colored glass jars of calla lilies, pouring smooth and creamy from smooth green stems, and an Epstein statuette of a big-bellied small-headed woman, repulsive and fascinating. Mrs. Prather's tight flesh-colored chiffon gown gave a curious effect. "Venus arising from the card table," Ralph murmured. Cyril Wolfe's monocle flashed in the spurt of a match; Mrs. Thorne's delicate eyebrows drew together in a frown; her upper lip lengthened like a monkey's as she took advantage of being dummy to peer into the mirror of her vanity case and put fresh scarlet on her mouth.
Evelyn knew she would have been engaged to Ralph now if she hadn't inconveniently fallen in love with Joe. Comfort and beauty would have been hers, Ralph's dark and silken love-making would have been hers. She was fascinated and excited by him; she grew light-headed on his admiration, his intuitive Oriental understanding. She could always depend on him not to miss the subtlest shade as they mocked the others
