I don’t want to stop your singing. How can he help you?” She threw such a look upon him that even he, Sir John Ferringhall, carpetmerchant, hide-bound Englishman, slow-witted, pompous, deliberate, felt his heart beat to music. There was a strange quality of steel in this pretty creature. Any natural fineness would be numbed by drink. “You need a reason. She hated it, she hated the mission-house; she hated the sleek lagoon, the palms, the burning sky. What would happen to her? Would her soul be shaken, twisted, hypnotized?—as it had been those other times? Music—that took out of her the sense of reality, whirled her into the clouds, that gave to her will the directless energy of a chip of wood on stormy waters. And Leonardo told me never to trust any man.
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