For Marcia was virginal-though not out of innate, chastity: she despised the experience of sexual communion; she would be slave to no man’s bed, not she, beautiful and provocative and independent that she was! These silly young matrons, overjoyed by their husbands, gossiping and chattering like magpies-oh, how she despised them, for they were a category of women who had surrendered their charm, social self-esteem and command of wealth and desire, merely to become the legal partners of a mundane concubine-that was not for her!

Men she would dangle from her scented and tapering fingers, hearts she would intrigue and ravish with her beauty-she would exploit them, scorn them and turn to new conquests wherein she ventured nothing and gave all.

She was an ivory tower demi-vierge-more despicable because of her wealth and education and social advantages than the candid harlot of Seventh Avenue who has no shame in offering her body for hire!

And, considering her youth, she was remarkably familiar with the courtesan’s ruses of drawing out men’s confidences, till she had enthralled until the moment when they were wise enough to learn how joyless would be their pursuit of her, this will-o’-the-wisp, heartless, superficial, without passion or response to it.

The debut was to be at the Waldorf-Astoria; the great, sparkling salon on the third floor was the site of the event. Invitations, caterers, wine stewards, decorations-all had been attended to; she had done nothing. Her mother, doting on her, made a great show of her devotional sacrifice-Marcia would meet a fabulously wealthy man and marry him and all would be well.