Me no cry, me only say
Tow-see mon-ga-lay.
“Yes”—Mellenger resumed the train of his thoughts—“my advice is eminently sound—but you’ll not follow it.” The doorbell rang. “There’s Maisie Morrison now, Dan.”
“I shall ask her this very night to marry me, Mel.”
“I think not, old-timer.”
“You are a very wise man, Monsieur Mel.”
Tamea spoke from the doorway and Dan, looking up startled, beheld her standing there, a thing of beauty, dazzling, glorious, shimmering, in a dinner gown of old rose that displayed her matchless figure to bewildering perfection. Her eyes, not flashing but softly luminous, were bent upon Dan Pritchard a little bit sadly, a little bit puzzled.
“I have been a stranger here, chéri,” she said very distinctly, “but you have looked with favor upon your Tamea, Dan Pritchard—and we are strangers to each other no longer. You are my man. I love you, and though I die this Maisie shall not possess that which I love.”
She crossed swiftly to Dan’s side; as he sought to rise she drew him down in his chair again and pressed his head back to meet her glance as she bent over him, her arms around his neck. A silence, while she searched the soul of him. Then: “You do love your Tamea?”
Dan Pritchard murmured, “I don’t know, Tamea.”