However, the inmates of this artificial Eden were, to Justin at any rate, more Rabellaisian than Godly. They watched a panting satyr chase a giggling nymph around and around the bole of a giant tree--but the satyr was a plump balding gentleman half-clad in red and yellow motley, while his quarry was a plumper if less bald damsel whose complex and tight-drawn corset and shift promised that while the chase would be brief, its consummation would prove to be appallingly difficult. "'Twill offer poor Wilmot more woe than a chastity girdle," Deborah said, laughing. "Milady of Warwick is the only one of us he can catch." "You mean that old goat has actually chased _you_?" Justin asked. "And prithee, why not?" she countered coolly. Justin grinned ruefully. He said, "Well, I hope you didn't let him _catch_ you." "That I have ne'er allowed any man," she replied quietly and a shadow of sadness returned to haunt her fascinating face. They saw other bizarre sights in the Belvoir garden and Justin was amazed, not to say appalled, by the casual sophistication with which Deborah either ignored or found amusement in what were to him appalling spectacles. He kept reminding himself, _other times--other customs_, but he was relieved when she drew him into a secluded arbor at the far end of the half-mile garden. There, without warning, she turned to him, put her arms about his neck and lifted her soft full lips to his. As he kissed her and his arms and body discovered to the full what the starched deceptiveness of her ridiculous nightgown concealed, Justin felt a sudden surge of desire such as had not assailed him in years. He recalled, unbidden, what Corinne Forrester had said about his need for a woman, thought briefly of the purgatory in which his wife's frigidity had held him, then stopped thinking about anything but the sweetness of this unexpected and utterly welcome moment. Later, when some degree of sanity had returned to both of them, Deborah said softly, "Prithee do not think me a light maid, Darling Charles, but I fear we have little time and it was vital to me that I give myself to a man of my choice." "Debby dear," he replied, ignoring for the moment the implications of her remark, "I think you're unbelievable. Being with you, holding you like this, is utterly fantastic--for in my own mind I have long been in love with a girl of your own time and city." "Tell me her name," Deborah said fiercely, "and I'll scratch out her eyes when I get back." He laughed gently, replied, "She had no name, Debby dear--I made her up myself. And now she is Deborah Wilkins." For that she kissed him and said, "But why, Darling Charles, should ye dream of a girl of my time--and my Boston? In truth, 'tis a horrid dirty town." "You may not realise it, dear," he told her, "but you live in one of the most fascinating towns, in one of the most fascinating times of history." "Ye speak madness!" she cried.