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Once he had
launched himself upon this affair, it was clear to him that he owed
it to her never to humiliate her. And to go back upon himself now
would be a tremendous humiliation for her. You see, he had helped
her a little financially. And she looked to him, she wanted him. . . .
She wasn't, he knew, altogether respectable. Indeed, poor dear, her
ethical problems, already a little worn, made her seem at times
anything but respectable. He had met her first one evening at Jimmy
Gluckstein's when he was forming his opinion of Art. Her manifest
want of interest in pictures had attracted him. And that had led to
music. And to the mention of a Clementi piano, that short, gentle,
sad, old, little sort of piano people will insist upon calling a
spinet, in her flat.
And so to this. . . .
It was very wonderful and delicious, this first indulgence of sense.
It was shabby and underhand.
The great god Pan is a glorious god. (And so was Swinburne.) And
what can compare with the warmth of blood and the sheen of sunlit
limbs?
But Priapus.


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