His face was half hidden under a freshly pipeclayed sola topee—sun-helmet. He called to the other attendant, who held the torch. Small blame to her. But you—you have a good face. The comparisons upon which she could draw were few and confusingly new, mixed with reality and the loose artistic conceptions of heroes in fiction. Her tone was hoarse with passion. You have converted me to—Lester Ward! You are my dear friend, you are a slip of a girl, but there are moments when my head has been on your breast, when your heart has been beating close to my ears, when I have known you for the goddess, when I have wished myself your slave, when I have wished that you could kill me for the joy of being killed by you.
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