Avon Fantasy Reader No. 11 — page 16: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

dle-brown in country butter, roast wild duck gamed to perfection and secved with stewed green celery tops and mint-quince jelly, and spoon bread ycllow as the sweet butter which melted on it. Lucinda barely touched her glass, but Harrigan showed due appreciation for the vintage burgundy with which the butler kept his crystal goblet filled, and as he ate and drank his admiration for his hostess grew. After dinner they sat in the drawing-room before the fire, and while she poured coffee {rom a Georgian silver pot in eggshell Sévres cups and brandy from a cobwebbed bottle into bubble-thin inhalers he looked at her as Abelard might first have looked at Hélofse or Aucassin at Nicolette. She was a brilliant conversationalist, seeming to divine his thought before he put it into words, and foliowing his verbal lead as a skilled dancer re- sponds to her partner’s lightest touch. She knew and loved the things he knew and Joved—the bookstalls by the Seine, the pastry cooks’ stands on the Ie de France, sunrise over the Grand Canyon, the flower market by St. Paul’s in London, twilight on Fifth Avenue with lights beginning to appear in a soft veil of dusk. But more than her quick sympathetic understanding and the wit and aul- ture that her talk displayed, more than the beauty of her slim exquisite figure with its long and tapering arms and legs, flat back, firm, pointed breasts, and head set gracefully upon a round full throat; more, even, than the beauty of her exquisite pale-ivory face with its vivid scarlet mouth and long moss-agate eyes, he found her voice compelling. It was deep-pitched, velvety, with that peculiar throaty quality one sometimes hears in southern countries, and its husky, bell-like timbre seemed to strike vibrations from ihe very keynote of his being. When, discussing poetry, she took down a slim vellum volume and read from a Persian songster dead for a long thousand years: “O my beloved, O thou pearl among women, If all other women in the world Were gathered in one corner of the East And thou alone in the dim West, I should surely come to thee, ‘Even wert thou hidden In the deepest forest Or on the highest mountain top, O my beloved,” he felt tears of something close akin to adoration welling in his eyes. The storm had stopped and the silver boat of the moon’s crescent rode a sky-turf tremulous with clouds when he left her. Her face was like jas- mine blossom in the argent light as she bade him goodnight on the porch. “May I see you again soon, please?” he besought as she laid her rosy-tipped, small hand in his. ““Tomorrow—in the morning ?”’ “Not in the morning, Edward’’—they had come to first names already —she denied. ‘‘Tomorrow night, if there’s a moon, you may come to me, 14 Comicbooks.com