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Now, the vision of the promised kiss filled him with such ecstasy that it seemed hardly possible it could be still further intensified. And yet beyond it, down a vista of mirrors, there was still to be reached the dimwhite form of her body, that very form which art students had sketched so conscientiously and so badly. But of those dull hours in the studio Albinus suspected nothing, although, by a queer trick of fate, he had unwittingly seen her nude form already: the family doctor, old Lampert, had shown him some charcoal drawings which his son had made two years ago and among them was a girl with bobbed hair, her feet curled under her on the rug where she sat, leaning on her stiff arm, her shoulder touching her cheek. “No, I think I prefer the hunchback,” he had remarked, turning back to another sheet on which a bearded cripple was depicted. “Yes, it is a great pity he has given up Art,” he had added, closing the portfolio.
    Ten minutes to five. She was already twenty minutes late. “I’ll wait until five and then go out,” he murmured.
    Suddenly he saw her. She was crossing the street without coat or hat, as though she lived round the corner.
    “Still time to run down and tell her it’s getting too late now,” but instead of doing so Albinus tiptoed breathlessly into the hall, and when he heard the childish stamping of her footsteps coming up the stairs he noiselessly opened the door.
    Margot in her short red frock with bare arms smiled into the mirror and then twirled round on her heel, as she smoothed the back of her head.
    “You do live in style,” she said, her beaming eyes roaming over the hall with its large rich pictures, its porcelain vase in the corner and that cream-colored cretonne instead of wallpaper. “This way?” she asked and pushed open a door. “Oh!” she said.
    He laid one trembling hand round her waist and with her he looked up at the crystal chandelier as though he himself were a stranger. But he saw it all through a swimming haze. She crossed her feet and rocked gently as she stood there, her eyes roaming.
    “You are rich,” she said as they entered the next room. “Heavens, what rugs!”
    She was so overcome by the sideboard in the dining room that Albinus was able to finger her ribs stealthily and, above them, a hot soft muscle.
    “Let’s go on,” she said eagerly.
    In a passing mirror he saw a pale grave gentleman walking beside a schoolgirl in her Sunday dress. Cautiously, he stroked her smooth arm and the glass grew dim.
    “Come on,” said Margot.
    He wanted to get her back into the study. Then, if his wife came back earlier than he expected,it would be simple: a young artist in want of help.
    “And what’s in there?” she asked.
    “That’s the nursery. You’ve seen everything now.”
    “Let me go,” she said, moving her shoulders.
    He drew a deep breath.
    “It’s the nursery, my darling. Only the nursery—there’s nothing to see.”
    But she went inside and suddenly he felt a strange impulse to shout at her: “Please, don’t touch anything.” But she was already holding a purple plush elephant. He snatched it away and shoved it into a corner. Margot laughed.
    “Your little girl is in clover here,” she said. Then she opened the next door.
    “That’s enough, Margot,” Albinus pleaded, “we are getting too far from the hall, we shan’t hear the front door. It’s dreadfully dangerous.”
    But she shook him off like a naughty child and slipped through the passage into the bedroom. There she seated herself in front of the mirror (mirrors were having plenty of work that day), turned a silver-backed brush in her hand, sniffed at a silver-stoppered bottle.
    “Oh, don’t!” cried Albinus.
    She swerved by him neatly, ran to the double bed, and seated herself on the edge. She pulled upher stocking like a child, made the garter snap, and showed him the tip of her tongue.
    “…  and then I’ll kill myself,” thought Albinus, suddenly losing his