Only a few weeks before
she had gone about proudly conscious of her superb magnificence. It was
the triumphant weapon in her woman's armoury, to use when she so chose.
It had illuminated a man's journey (I knew and felt it now) through the
Valley of the Shadow. It had held his senses captive. It had brought him
to her feet. It was a charm that she could always offer to his eyes.
It was her glory and her pride to enhance it for his delectation. Her
beauty was herself. That gone, she had nothing but a worthless soul to
offer, and what woman would dream of offering a man her soul if she had
no casket in which to enshrine it? If I had presented this other aspect
of the case to Lola, she would have cried out, with perfect sincerity:
"My soul! You get things like mine anywhere for twopence a dozen."
It was the blasting of her beauty that was the infinite matter. All
that I loved would be gone. She would have nothing left to give. The
splendour of the day had ceased, and now was coming the long, long,
dreary night, to meet which with dignity she was nerving her brave
heart.
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