She reminded him sometimes of the one holy and ineffable Madonna, at others of Berode, the great courtezan of her day, who had sent kings away from her doors, and had just announced her intention of ending her life in a convent. Plote was sleeping or deaf. The sun was all but gone now, the horizon a deep shade of purple. From the centre of the ceiling hung a replica of the temple lamp in the Taj Mahal. ‘I am saying so,’ protested Gerald mildly. “Thank you,” she said coolly. Occasionally the mere fact of lying in bed became unendurable, and she rolled out and marched about her room and whispered abuse of herself—usually until she hit against some article of furniture. ‘Lover’s tiff indeed. She felt she was bound in honor to tell the whole affair to Manning sooner or later.
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