The fires of inward wrath seemed to have reduced her weight a few pounds, so that if ever a man faced a situation of unbroken gloom, that man was the poor Governor-General.
Count Malagaski sat in the large, over-decorated audience room, alone with his sorrowful meditations. An attendant brought him a note.
"The man is at the gate," said the attendant. "He started to come in. We tried to keep him out. He pushed three of the soldiers out of the way, but we finally held him back, so he sends this note."
A few lines had been written in pencil on the reverse side of a typewritten business letter. The Governor-General could speak English, but he read it rather badly, so he sent for his secretary, who told him that the note ran as follows:
You don't know me and there is no need to give my name. Must see you on important matter of business. Something in regard to your daughter.
"Great Heavens, another one!" said the Governor-General. "There are one thousand young men ready and willing to marry Jeneka and not one in all the world wants Kalora. Send him away!"
"I am afraid he won't go," suggested the attendant. "He is a very positive character."
"Then send him in to me. I can dispose of his case in short order."
A few moments later Count Selim Malagaski found himself sitting face to face with a ruddy young man in a blue suit—a square-shouldered, smiling young gentleman, with hair of subdued auburn.
"I take it that you're a busy man and I'll come to the point," said the young man, pulling up his chair. "I try to be business from the word go, even in matters of this kind. You have a daughter."