But he did not follow on with the thought. 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. ’ ‘Who is that?’ demanded Lucilla eagerly. The highest form of knowledge was magic: the priesthood. There was nothing on her face to hint of the misery that brimmed her heart this morning. Straitened circumstances would not have mattered; a mother would have managed somehow. She was acquiring truths, but in a series of shocks rather than by the process of analysis.
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