“But,” Tamea continued sadly, and let her hand fall back into her lap, “my chéri does not love his Tamea. She is half Kanaka.”
“Hush, child,” he admonished. “I have never thought of you as anything save as one of God’s most glorious creations.”
“But,” Tamea persisted, “it makes a great difference—to be half Kanaka. It makes a great difference to a white man like you.”
“It doesn’t make the slightest difference, sweetheart,” he cried, and wondered why he had called her sweetheart. His heart was pounding now, there was a drumming in his ears, he was atremble with the trembling that had shaken him as a zephyr shakes the leaves of a forest that evening on the Moorea after old Gaston had departed for Paliuli and the girl had clung to him, weeping and despairing. “You’re wonderful, glorious,” he continued, his words outpouring in a sort of rapturous jumble and mumble, and swept her into his arms. Their lips met. . . Tamea could kiss.
“Then you love your Tamea—truly, dear one?” she whispered finally.
“I adore you.”
“And you will not wed Maisie, even though you are engaged to her?”
“I am not engaged to Maisie and never have been. What’s more, I never shall be, Tamea. No man could marry a more wonderful woman than Maisie, but unfortunately for me, Maisie isn’t the least bit in love with me.”
Tamea started, drew away from him and eyed him wonderingly.
“You are wrong, dear one. Maisie adores you.”