That night, whilst Masters and Laurance, cigars in mouth, were gravely picking out the former's trade goods on board the Palestine the White Lady and the Brown 'Woman' talked.
'Is you any better now?' said Melanie, as she caressingly ran her hand down the golden locks of Mrs Laurance.
A smothered sob was her answer, and the yellow head buried itself among the pillows of the couch.
Melanie turned away despairingly, and then lit a cigarette. What a fool was this beautiful white woman—nothing but sob, sob, sob! What could be done to dry her tears?
Presently the Brown 'Woman' slid her hand under the waist of the weeping White Lady, and pressed her cheek to hers.
'Don' you wan' to stay here now?'
'No, no, no! Let me go away. I wish I were dead!'
'What for?' and the philosophical Melanie sent two long streaks of smoke through her nostrils. 'Why are you 'shamed? You have a husban' now, and yo' don' wan' to faotane, do you?'
'What is faotane?'