She seated herself
by her bedside in her evening dress, and began to think it all
out again, exactly as it happened. As she did so, the picture of
Sardanapalus, on his bed of fern, came up clear in her mind, just
as he lay coiled round in Cyril Waring's landscape. Beautiful
Sardanapalus, so sleek and smooth and glossy, if only she had him
here now--she paused and hesitated. In a moment, the wild impulse
rushed upon her once more. It clutched her by the throat; it held
her fast as in a vice. She must get up and dance; she must obey
the mandate; she must whirl till she fell in that mystical ecstasy.
She rose, and seemed for a moment as though she must yield to the
temptation. The boa--the boa was in the lower drawer. Reluctantly,
remorsefully, she opened the drawer and took it out in her hands.
Fluff and feathers, fluff and feathers--nothing more than that!
But oh, how soft, how smooth, how yielding, how serpentine! With
a violent effort she steadied herself, and looked round for her
scissors. They lay on the dressing-table. She took them up with a
fixed and determined air. "If thy right hand offend thee, cut it
off," she thought to herself. Then she began ruthlessly hacking
the boa into short little lengths of a few inches each, which she
gathered up in her hands as soon as she had finished, and replaced
with care in the drawer where she had originally found them.
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