Why was she made like this?
Why was she for ever mocking herself, himself, and every other thing?
Why was she so hard to her own life, so bitter a foe to her own happiness?
Leonardo da Vinci might have painted her, less sensual and cruel than his women, more restless and disharmonic, but physically, spiritually enticing, and, by her refusals to surrender either to her spirit or her senses, baffling her own enticements.
"I don't know why I came," she said.
Hilary found no better answer than: "I am sorry I was out to dinner." "Has the wind gone round?
My room is cold." "Yes, north-east.

Stay here." Her hand touched his; that warm and restless clasp was agitating.
"It's good of you to ask me; but we'd better not begin what we can't keep up." "Stay here," said Hilary again, kneeling down beside her chair.
And suddenly he began to kiss her face and neck.

He felt her answering kisses; for a moment they were clasped together in a fierce embrace.
Then, as though by mutual consent, their arms relaxed; their eyes grew furtive, like the eyes of children who have egged each other on to steal; and on their lips appeared the faintest of faint smiles.

It was as though those lips were saying: "Yes, but we are not quite animals!" Hilary got up and sat down on his bed.

Blanca stayed in the chair, looking straight before her, utterly inert, her head thrown back, her white throat gleaming, on her lips and in her eyes that flickering smile.