Their soft, voluptuous bodies wove among each other to the faint notes of a lyre. He forgot Annabel’s idle attempts at love-making, all the cul-de-sac gallantry of the moment. “You are very kind to think of it,” she said, “but—don’t you think perhaps—that I had better not?” He smiled indulgently. "If I could only make you realize what you have done," he said, lamely. Before a year has expired, you will share the same fate. “How shall I put the question? What am I? What have I got to do with myself?.
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