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At the threshold of the study he bade her good-night; but he did not touch her forehead with his lips. And now she was witnessing or observing the complicated machinery of civilization through which they had come, at length to land on the beach of her island. It does not matter to him either way. Still—” Then, with incredible and obviously deliberate stupidity, and a voice as flat as her own, he asked, “Who is the man?” Her spirit raged within her at the dumbness, the paralysis that had fallen upon her. He pictured himself visiting the girl in this shabby little home of her aunt’s—she had told him that it was shabby—and he recalled that delicious little smile with which she would surely greet him, a smile which seemed to be a matter of the eyes as well as the lips. Still, it was true about men. With his arms bare, the neckband of his shirt tucked in, he laboured.
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