“You cannot have it.”
“One of the crew—by name Kahanaha—found this one for me in the late skipper’s desk,” the imperturbable Mellenger informed him, and produced a photograph of Tamea, hibiscus-crowned, barefooted, garbed in a dotted calico Mother Hubbard.
“Hideous as death,” Dan growled and snatched at it.
But Mellenger whisked it away. “It is, as you say, hideous, but if no other photograph is available we shall be forced regretfully to use it. Woodley, of the Chronicle, has one like it, but I know I can prevail upon him to hand it back for something more recent and not so colorful.”
“He shall have it.”
“You understood I couldn’t permit Woodley to scoop me on the photograph.”
There was a knock at the door and Miss Mather entered. “Miss Morrison and Miss Larrieau are in the general office, asking to see you, Mr. Pritchard.”
“God is good and the devil not half bad,” murmured Mellenger and picked up his camera. “Certainly, Miss Mather. Admit the ladies, by all means.”
To Dan he said: “I’ve always wished I might live to see a queen enter a room. Tall, stately, majestic, coldly beautiful, they sweep through the door with a long undulating stride—Judas priest!”
“Chéri! Look at me, Dan.” From the door, violently flung open, Tamea’s golden voice challenged his admiration. For one breathless instant she stood, alert, seemingly poised for flight, a glorious creature gloriously garbed, her arms held toward him, beseeching his approval; the next she was rushing to him, to fling those arms around his neck and implant a chaste salute upon each cheek.