It was not an old body, but firm and young, and the face was not old.
"Nina looks old sometimes, because she gets tired. It's vitality that counts in this world. It's the only thing. I'm never tired. Faustino was old and tired at thirty-four when I married him."
Her hair, cut short but not too short, was a fine artificial red. "Thank Heaven," she thought, "I've dyed it for so many years that no one remembers it was ever any other color. It's swimming that preserves the figure. Swimming and sun and exercise. If women would only learn that." She thought of Oreste and of the many women who envied her, and she grew warm with triumph. Oreste was at least five years younger than herself, only he didn't know. "I am carnal woman," she thought, "and quite pleased with myself." She thought suddenly of the curious piece of sculpture found in the garden of the preposterous Mrs. Weatherby. The memory of it gave her strange and voluputous excitement.
Then she put on a pale green peignoir the color of sea-water and a collar of pearls.
There was a loggia off the salon which hung above the river. It was quite dark now and the moon had risen above the circling hills. The air was still hot, but the insane wind from Africa had died away at last.
"It is after nine," she thought. "He is late. He counted on being here by seven."
She walked out into the loggia and leaning on the
