A few cheers heralded the advent of several young fellows, in shirt-sleeves, carrying buckets, bottles, and towels, who crawled through the ropes and crossed to the diagonal corner from her.  One of them sat down on a stool and leaned back against the ropes.  She saw that he was bare-legged, with canvas shoes on his feet, and that his body was swathed in a heavy white sweater.  In the meantime another group had occupied the corner directly against her.  Louder cheers drew her attention to it, and she saw Joe seated on a stool still clad in the bath robe, his short chestnut curls within a yard of her eyes.

A young man, in a black suit, with a mop of hair and a preposterously tall starched collar, walked to the centre of the ring and held up his hand.

“Gentlemen will please stop smoking,” he said.

His effort was applauded by groans and cat-calls, and she noticed with indignation that nobody stopped smoking.  Mr. Clausen held a burning match in his fingers while the announcement was being made, and then calmly lighted his cigar.  She felt that she hated him in that moment.  How was her Joe to fight in such an atmosphere?  She could scarcely breathe herself, and she was only sitting down.

The announcer came over to Joe.  He stood up.  His bath robe fell away from him, and he stepped forth to the centre of the ring, naked save for the low canvas shoes and a narrow hip-cloth of white.  Genevieve’s eyes dropped.  She sat alone, with none to see, but her face was burning with shame at sight of the beautiful nakedness of her lover.  But she looked again, guiltily, for the joy that was hers in beholding what she knew must be sinful to behold.  The leap of something within her and the stir of her being toward him must be sinful.  But it was delicious sin, and she did not deny her eyes.  In vain Mrs. Grundy admonished her.  The pagan in her, original sin, and all nature urged her on.  The mothers of all the past were whispering through her, and there was a clamour of the children unborn.  But of this she knew nothing.  She knew only that it was sin, and she lifted her head proudly, recklessly resolved, in one great surge of revolt, to sin to the uttermost.

She had never dreamed of the form under the clothes.  The form, beyond the hands and the face, had no part in her mental processes.  A child of garmented civilization, the garment was to her the form.  The race of men was to her a race of garmented bipeds, with hands and faces and hair-covered heads.  When she thought of Joe, the Joe instantly visualized on her mind was a clothed Joe—­girl-cheeked, blue-eyed, curly-headed, but clothed.  And there he stood, all but naked, godlike, in a white blaze of light.  She had never conceived of the form of God except as nebulously naked, and the thought-association was startling.  It seemed to her that her sin partook of sacrilege or blasphemy.