"What's wrong, Danny?" Eliza's anger gave instant place to solicitude. "You—you haven't STOLEN anything?"
"Lord, no! What put that into your head?"
"I don't know—except that's the worst thing that could happen to us. I like to start with the worst."
"I can't sulk in the jungle any more. I'm a rotten loser, Sis."
"Oh! You mean—Natalie? You—like her?"
"For a writer you select the most foolish words! Like, love, adore, worship—words are no good, anyway. I'm dippy; I'm out of my head; I've lost my reason. I'm deliriously happy and miserably unhappy. I—"
"That's enough!" the girl exclaimed. "I can imagine the rest."
"It was a fatal mistake for her to come to Omar, and to this very house, of all places, where I could see her every day. I might have recovered from the first jolt if I'd never seen her again, but—" He waved his hands hopelessly. "I'm beginning to hate O'Neil."
"You miserable traitor!" gasped Eliza.
"Yep! That's me! I'm dead to loyalty, lost to the claims of friendship. I've fought myself until I'm black in the face, but—it's no use. I must have Natalie!"