been taught her by a thousand thousand female ancestors.

“I got your postals,” she said.

Florian said nothing.

“My, you’re brown!”

Florian said nothing.

“Did you — have a good time?”

Florian said nothing.

“What — what — — ” Her hand went to her throat, where his eyes were fastened.

Then Florian spoke. “How white your throat is!” he said. “How white your throat is!”

Myra stepped out, then, from among the covert coats on the rack. Her head was lifted high on the creamy column that supported it. She had her pride, had Myra.

“It’s no whiter than it was a month ago, that I can see.”

“I know it.” His tone was humble, with a little pleading note in it. “I know a lot of things that I didn’t know a month ago, Myra.”