She watched them sleep for what seemed hours from the high window until her body grew colder than the stone sill she perched upon. He carried her into his bedroom as she unfastened the tiny white buttons of his shirt. Too late. She forgot her vital hatred of the South Seas; she forgot that McClintock's would not differ a jot from the old island she had for ever left behind her; she forgot all the doctor's lessons and warnings. “I think,” she said, “that I rather like what you have said. But some little distance behind him, someone had come out from the shadow of the building and, seeing the Frenchman reappear, darted back again as quickly. All that was needed to complete the simile was that the girl should burst into song. The fire still burned brightly.
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