His face was wreathed in smiles, his beringed hand was cordially outstretched. She saw herself begin a slow, sinuous dance: and stop suddenly in the middle of a figure, conscious that the dance was not impromptu, her own, but native—the same dance she had quitted but a few minutes gone. She was too delicate, too fragile to survive out there. Maggot. It was a queer little bed-sitting-room almost in the roof, with a partition right across it. She wallowed for a time in the thought of Capes, unable to escape from his image and the idea of his presence in her life.
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