Perhaps this was the real turning point: the hour in which the disordered mind began permanently to readjust itself. Anna was having tea by herself when she entered. You wore a blue dress with your hair unbound, and never had I seen a maid so glorious with eyes so blue or a smile so bright. It was in another world from that in which men will die for a kiss, and touching hands lights fires that burn up lives—the world of romance, the world of passionately beautiful things. I will take you for thirty-five shillings a week. “You are late,” she murmured. For a while they stood there, silent, motionless, staring at the doorway where still a few strings of the bamboo curtain swayed and twisted, agitated by the Wastrel's passage.
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