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You must!"
"_Ce que femme veut, Dieu le veut_," I laughed.
"_Eh bien, je le veux_," she said with an odd expression in her eyes
which burned golden. They fascinated me, held mine. For some seconds
neither of us moved. Just consider the picture. There among the cushions
of her chair she sprawled beneath the light of a shaded lamp on the
further side, and in front of the leaping flames, a great, powerful,
sinuous creature of sweeping curves, clad in a clinging brown dress, her
head crowned with superb bronze hair, two warm arms bare to the elbow,
at which the sleeve ended in coffee-coloured lace falling over the side
of the chair, and her leopard eyes fixed on me. About her still hung the
echo of her last words spoken in deep tones whose register belongs less
to human habitations than to the jungle. And from her emanated like
a captivating odour--but it was not an odour--a strange magnetic
influence.
I have done my best to write her down in my mind a commonplace, vulgar,
good-natured mountebank.


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