Mellenger took the cigar, but he did not light it. “I think I shall make a brief call on Tamea,” he declared. “I really think she would enjoy seeing me, and until the Pelorus leaves Riva, I imagine Tamea will have herself rather well under control. How does one reach her habitation?”
Hackett described the way and Mellenger left him. On the steps of Tamea’s home he found Sooey Wan seated; the old Chinaman looked angry and disconsolate, but at sight of Mellenger his yellow fangs showed in a glad smile of welcome. He rose, proffered his hand, which Mellenger grasped heartily, and for several seconds they stood, looking into each other’s faces; then the look of desolation sifted back over Sooey Wan’s face and he shook his head dolefully.
“Missa Mel,” he quavered, “evelybody clazy. Pitty soon Sooey Wan clazy, too.”
“Yes, Sooey, my friend,” Mellenger replied, “everybody is. In fact, I’m half crazy myself. Where is Tamea?”
Sooey Wan jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “Lady queen packum tlunk, Missa Mel.”
Mellenger entered the house. In the center of the living room Tamea sat, folding Dan’s well worn linen and packing it away in trunk trays. She looked up at his entrance—and stared unbelievingly a moment before scrambling to her feet and rushing to him with outstretched arms.
“Mellengair! Mellengair, my friend!” she cried, and then she was sobbing out, upon that great, understanding heart, the agony she had seen fit to repress in the presence of Dan. He held her to him, stroking the beautiful head but saying nothing, for he knew that her full heart was emptying itself, that she would be the better for her tears.
Presently she ceased to sob, but still she clung to him; long, heart-breaking sighs finally told Mellenger that she was getting herself under control once more. Gently he lifted her face and with his own handkerchief dried her eyes. “Poor Tamea!” he murmured. “Poor, unhappy, misunderstood waif!”
“Do not pity me, my friend,” she pleaded. “It is the fate of half-breeds to dwell in a world apart; in time we learn to make the best of it.” She smiled wanly. “It was, perhaps, unfortunate for me that my father was Gaston of the Beard. He put upon me the imprint of his own soul. So I see too clearly, I understand too readily, I feel too deeply.” She lifted his great hand and laid her cheek against the back of it. “Once I hurt you, Mellengair. I am sorry. I have wept many tears because I have called you Stoneface.”
“Don’t! Please don’t!” he pleaded hoarsely. “I didn’t mind. Really, I didn’t.”