She has simply accepted my statement. Harry is dead.
He has gone out of her life like yesterday's sunshine or
yesterday's frippery. If I had told her that yesterday's cab-
horse had broken his neck, she could not be more unconcerned.
Nay, she is glad. Harry had not treated her nicely. He had
boxed her up in a cabin where she had been sick, and had
subjected her to various other discomforts. I, on the contrary,
had surrounded her with luxuries and dressed her in red silk.
She rather dreaded Harry's coming. When she learned that this
was improbable she was relieved. His death had turned the
improbable into the impossible. It was the end of the matter.
She was so glad!
Yet there must have been some tender passage in their brief
intercourse. He must have kissed her during their flight from
home to steamer. Her young pulses must have throbbed a little
faster at the sight of his comely face.
What kind of a mythological being am I housing? Did she come at
all out of Hamdi Effendi's harem? Is she not rather some strange
sea-creature that clambered on board the vessel and bewitched the
miserable boy, sucked the soul out of him, and drove him to
destruction? Or is she a Vampire? Or a Succubus? Or a
Hamadryad? Or a Salamander?
One thing, I vow she is not human.
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