“Yes,” Mellenger agreed coolly, “only in this case suppose we substitute for the word may the word shall.”
“Tamea?” asked Dan.
Mellenger nodded. “She is exotic, marvelous, irresistible—just the sort of woman to sweep an idealistic ass like you off his feet—into the abyss. Maisie Morrison knows that, and Tamea, young as she is, knows that Maisie Morrison knows it. This afternoon in your office your ward favored you with an impulsive, childish hug and kiss. That was a stab to the other girl. They exchanged swift glances. There was challenge in Maisie’s and triumph and purpose in Tamea’s.”
“This is perfectly horrible, Mel.”
“We-l-l, at any rate it’s inconvenient and embarrassing. It would be horrible for Maisie to have to come to a realization that this half-caste islander had won you away from her—and it would be very horrible for you to arrive at the same realization after it was too late.”
“But I entertain no such crazy intention.”
“You don’t know what intentions you may entertain. You may never truly fall in love with Tamea, but—you may become infatuated with her. She has a singularly potent lure for men—men who love beauty and fire and vitality—men who feel mentally crowded by a mediocre world. I have known such men, when infatuated, to sacrifice everything they valued in life for the transient favor of women who did not assay very highly in mental or moral values. As a matter of fact, my boy, you are infatuated with Tamea already.”
“How do you know?”
“I do not know how or why I know. I just know it, and now I am sure I know it. Forget it, Dan.”
Pritchard’s head sunk on his chest in the thoughtful, half sad posture that Maisie termed the Abraham Lincoln look. He sighed and said presently, “What should I do about it, Mel?”