upon them. He remained in his room; and at last, after midnight, he knew that Gregg had gone, for Marjorie came upstairs; and at the top, she hesitated—he thought—whether to come again to his room; so he opened his door to show that he was still up. But she went on to her own room and closed the door.
For Marjorie wanted to be alone with her new wonder which was nothing more nor less than the amazement of woman renewing the world by love of man and through her body.
Her body! What had it been for her before? It had been before—and by "before" always she meant before that night of the Lovells' dance, after which everything became different—her possession for barter for her livelihood. It was a strong, healthy, well-formed body and inhabited by brain enough so that she was in small danger of bartering it for the pitiful pottage of the girl who becomes wanton. No; Marjorie never even imagined herself as having been in danger of that. Her barter was to have been in the marriage market, trading according to the custom of the day. For me, what have you? Ease? Entertainment and enjoyment? Position and privileges? Travel and luxury abroad or at home? I have for you—my body; no other duty or obligation except perhaps one child from it, or, if it threatens to deprive me of nothing, maybe two.
This—Marjorie thought—was what she had been and she would have never bothered about it. No wonder Felix Rinderfeld could discern that what had been knocked from under her that night was not merely an illusion concerning her father but a fallacy regarding her whole situation, for she had imagined herself normal enough and right enough. No wonder that her
