"Loved you, Cleopatra? Dearest—I have loved you from the moment my eyes first fell on you…. Poor salt-encrusted, weary, bloodshot eyes they were too," he added, smiling, reminiscent.
"What do you mean?" asked Mrs. Dearman, puzzled.
"Ah—I have a secret to tell you—a confession that will open those beautiful eyes wide with surprise. I first saw you when you were Cleopatra Brighte."
"Good gracious!" ejaculated Mrs. Dearman in great surprise. "When_ever_ when?"
"I'll tell you," said the man, smiling fondly. "You have my photograph.
You took it yourself—on board the 'Malaya'."
"I?" said Mrs. Dearman. "What are you talking about?"
"About you, dearest, and the time when I first saw you—and fell in love with you;—love at first sight, indeed."
"But I never photographed you on board ship. I never saw you on a ship.
I met you first here in Gungapur."
"Do you remember the 'Malaya' stopping to pick up a shipwrecked sailor, a castaway, in a little dug-out canoe, somewhere in the Indian Ocean, when you were first coming out to India? But of course you do—you have the snap-shot in your collection…."
"Why—yes—I remember, of course—but that was a horrid, beastly native. The creature could only speak Hindustani. He was the sole survivor of the crew of some dhow or bunder-boat, they said…. He lived and worked with the Lascars till we got to Bombay. Yes…."