‘Oh! Don’t mention it! Candles!—and soap!—’
‘And fish-interiors!—’
‘And train-oil—’
‘And slush!—’
‘And whale-blubber!—’
‘And carrion! and sour-krout! and beeswax! and tar! and turpentine! and molasses! and—’
‘Don’t—oh, don’t—I shall expire with ecstasy!—’
‘And then serve it all up in a slush-bucket, and invite the neighbours and sail in!’
But this vision of an ideal feast was too much for her, and she swooned away, poor thing. I rubbed snow in her face and brought her to, and after a while got her excitement cooled down. By-and-by she drifted into her story again:
‘So we began to live here in the fine house. But I was not happy. The reason was this: I was born for love: for me there could be no true happiness without it. I wanted to be loved for myself alone. I wanted an idol, and I wanted to be my idol’s idol; nothing less than mutual idolatry would satisfy my fervent nature. I had suitors in plenty—in over-plenty, indeed—but in each and every case they had a fatal defect: sooner or later I discovered that defect—not one of them failed to betray it—it was not me they wanted, but my wealth.’