With a well-simulated unconcern and a heightened color she finished her breakfast. You might tell the truth to some men, but never to him. The letter began: “MY DEAREST GIRL,—I cannot let you do this foolish thing—” She crumpled notes and letter together in her hand, and then with a passionate gesture flung them into the fire. She wanted to think of him as her beloved person, to be near him and watch him, to have him going about, doing this and that, saying this and that, unconscious of her, while she too remained unconscious of herself. If you choose, you can see him put on board the Zeeslang yourself, Sir Rowland.
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