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What's it like, Joan?" "It's a small key, with curiously-fashioned wards. There is so little abandon, so little real joyousness. Mr. Sheppard. You make a game with me, imbecile. Her secret thoughts made some hasty, half-hearted excursions into the possibility of telling the thing in romantic tones—Ramage was as a black villain, she as a white, fantastically white, maiden. Even then it sent Spurlock spinning backward, to crash against the wall. And there was no intimation whatever that the blinds would ever go up or the windows or doors be opened, or the chandeliers, that seemed to promise such a blaze of fire, unveiled and furnished and lit. I am gambling on his intuition. I know nothing of that young lady. The haste to send her upon her way now had but one interpretation—the recognition of his own immediate danger, the fear that if this tender association continued, he would end in offering her a calamity quite as impossible as that which had happened—the love of a man who was in all probability older than her father! The hurt was no less intensive because it was so ridiculous. There was a very substantial profit in the transaction, for he paid the natives in commodities—coloured cotton cloths, pipes and tobacco, guns and ammunition, household utensils, cutlery and glass gewgaws. But a little daughter is one thing and a daughter quite another.
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