It hardly served his interests. Of all the amazing coincidences. He saw her, dripping with rosy pearls, rise out of the lagoon in the dawn light: he saw her flashing to and fro among the coco palms in the moonshine: he saw her breasting the hurricane, her body as full of grace and beauty as the Winged Victory of the Louvre. When she finally did take her own lover, it was not with a member of the household staff. It seemed at first the most beautiful afternoon of all time to her, and perhaps the thrill of her excitement did add a distinctive and culminating keenness to the day. “Very likely,” he answered. He can't play cards, either, when he's sober.
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