CHAPTER III
THE IRONY OF INSPIRED MOMENTS
It happened, the next day after the funeral, I came upon reproductions of Aubrey Beardsley’s “Atalanta,” and of the tail-piece to “Salome,” and others. I sat and looked and my soul leaped out upon the new thing. I was bewildered, wondering, grudging, fascinated. I looked a long time, but my mind, or my soul, would come to no state of coherence. I was fascinated and overcome, but yet full of stubbornness and resistance.
Lettie was out, so, although it was dinner-time, even because it was dinner-time, I took the book and went down to the mill.
The dinner was over; there was the fragrance of cooked rhubarb in the room. I went straight to Emily, who was leaning back in her chair, and put the “Salome” before her.
“Look,” said I, “look here!”
She looked; she was short-sighted, and peered close. I was impatient for her to speak. She turned slowly at last and looked at me, shrinking, with questioning.
“Well?” I said.
“Isn’t it—fearful!” she replied, softly.
“No!—why is it?”
“It makes you feel—Why have you brought it?”
“I wanted you to see it.”
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