Irene offered, then, a somewhat unusual type. While other girls might
recount the number of male hearts they had subdued during the past
season, Irene could state, with equal accuracy, the names of the gods
of the Memphite order. Though her grandfather's wealth and the
eagerness of a skilled maid compelled her to take a passing interest in
fashions, she was far more devoted to variations in scarabs. Such
attainments, if sedulously pursued during the succeeding decade, might
have converted her into an alarmingly precise Bas Bleu! As it was, the
Memphite gods smiled on her, and the scarabs might buzz off to their
museums contentedly at any moment, for Irene was only waiting the
advent of an undreamed-of influence into her life to develop into a
tender, sympathetic, delightful womanhood.
Indeed, if Ka and Ra and beetle-headed Khepra were so important in the
scheme of existence that this dainty scientist cared naught for the
moth-life of society, why, then, did she blush when she remembered how
closely Dick Royson had clasped her to his breast over-night? Perhaps
she might have asked herself that question, only to blush more deeply
in trying to answer it, had not her thoughts been distracted by the
extraordinary behavior of a silk underskirt hanging on a peg at the
foot of the bed.
Pages:
252
253
254
255
256
257
258
259
260
261
262
263
264
265
266
267
268
269
270
271
272
273
274
275
276