St. Cecilia

St. Cecilia.

“Over her gray and velvet dress,

Under her molten, beaten hair,

Color of rose in mock distress

Flushes and fades and makes her fair;

Fills the air from her to him

With light and languor and little sighs,

Just so subtly he scarcely knows …

Laughing lightning, color of rose.”

“Do you like me?”

“Of course I do,” said Clara seriously.

“Why?”

“Well, we have some qualities in common. Things that are spontaneous in each of us—or were originally.”

“You’re implying that I haven’t used myself very well?”

Clara hesitated.

“Well, I can’t judge. A man, of course, has to go through a lot more, and I’ve been sheltered.”

“Oh, don’t stall, please, Clara,” Amory interrupted; “but do talk about me a little, won’t you?”

“Surely, I’d adore to.” She didn’t smile.

“That’s sweet of you. First answer some questions. Am……