The Woman Beater by Israel Zangwill — Read

She came "to meet John Lefolle," but John Lefolle did not know he was / to meet Winifred Glamorys. He did not even know he was himself the / meeting-point of all the brilliant and beautiful persons, assembled in / the publisher's Saturday Salon, for although a youthful minor poet, he / was modest and lovable. Perhaps his Oxford tutorship was sobering. / At any rate his head remained unturned by his precocious fame, and / to meet these other young men and women -- his reverend seniors on / the slopes of Parnassus -- gave him more pleasure than the receipt of / "royalties. " Not that his publisher afforded him much opportunity of / contrasting the two pleasures. The profits of the Muse went to provide / this room of old furniture and roses, this beautiful garden a-twinkle / with Japanese lanterns, like gorgeous fire-flowers blossoming under / the white crescent-moon of early June.

Winifred Glamorys was not literary herself. She was better than / a poetess, she was a poem. The publisher always threw in a few / realities, and some beautiful brainless creature would generally be / found the nucleus of a crowd, while Clio in spectacles languished in a / corner. Winifred Glamorys, however, was reputed to have a tongue that / matched her eye; paralleling with whimsies and epigrams its freakish / fires and witcheries, and, assuredly, flitting in her white gown / through the dark balmy garden, she seemed the very spirit of / moonlight, the subtle incarnation of night and roses.