To her, however, there was nothing strange or unnatural about it. If there was ever a moment when she needed poise, verve, fluidity of movement like unto water that shapes itself to the vessel in which it is contained, it was now. Her rendezvous with the Emperor must not be a transient episode. She would not consider being the plaything of a moment. She must have the fixity of stars. Her mind was as clear and fresh as the sea, and her purpose as eternal. Splashing about in the pool, she sang snatches of love songs from "The Book of Odes":
"The peach tree young and beautiful,
Abundant are its fruits."
Her faithful old Amah came forward and poured Arabic perfume of fabulous rarity into the water. It sparkled and glimmered and shone like specks of gold upon her naked loveliness.
"In the valley is a carambola tree;
Charming the grace of its branches!
How full of vigor its tender beauty!"
At last she stepped from the bath. Her old Amah dried her body tenderly with towels of softest linen. The fragrance of her body was like unto that of wistaria in the cool dew of purple dawn. She abandoned the "Odes" for the songs of a modem poet:
