“Tears—and over Dolores’ griefs to men? Now I know you are a fool. To have taken me seriously when I called myself a crocodile! I to weep—and over human nature? Excuse me, folks. Let me enjoy myself while I’m young. Honestly, I near injure my sides every time I think of what she put over on that high-priest of the Great-I-Am!”
Too preoccupied was he to return his new-made general’s salute. Not until the sound of Old Sam’s peg-leg had ceased to punctuate the pause did he reseat himself upon the bench.
“As for you, designing jade——”
In the very midst of his address, he became lost in contemplation of the royal toes. The girl-shade beside him realized that not once to-day had he looked directly at her. She was reminded painfully of an earthling who had been strong toward all his world, yet weak toward her. He must not have that sort of weakness for her—Satan. He must look at her. She leaned toward him and tried to smile. But he would not meet her eyes. Hideous it was that he should ape the mannerism toward her of that one she had cared for most on earth.
Long it seemed before he completed his remark.
He had her at last, he declared; had preferred not to see or hear her again until he had her. Now he was ready to take up with her the matter of her status in Shadow Land. Had she wondered why she was the only soul about the court not more or less tormented? The answer was easy. Torment wasted power. He chuckled; then, on noting that he chuckled alone, frowned. Had she no sense of humor?
At her ingenuous acknowledgment of her lack in that respect, the Satanic brow cleared. To know that she had not humor was humor in itself. Positively the most comical thing about the story of her life was that she could be so serious over it now that she was dead. Henceforth he should not expect anything in her but soul. He had a beautiful soul himself. But he didn’t let it interfere with his daily pleasures.
At first he had attributed his interest in her to the correlative facts that she was a fallen woman and he a fallen angel. When, later, he had come to realize her desirability to devils in general, he had searched for a more comprehensive reason.
To his way of looking, she was pleasant to the eye. But beauty was a matter of taste. To a Zulu she wouldn’t compare with his thick-lipped, black-hued mate. The Cabot’s housekeeper, Mrs. Morrison, might be right in accrediting her with a sweet disposition. Yet weren’t unattractive girls usually called “sweet” and “good-natured”? She appeared to be unselfish—and where was there an attribute so tiresome in women as unselfishness? The fact that she boasted no brilliancy was a point in her favor. The suggestion of an ardent nature in those dear little wrinkles around her mouth might be either pro or con.
In what, then, lay her lure?