The quaint seriousness, the resolute fearlessness of this little maid of Paradise touched us both, I think, 193 as she stood there restlessly, balancing on her slim bare feet, finger-tips poised on her hips.
“Won’t you take me?” she asked, sweetly.
“I’ll tell you what I’ll do, Jacqueline,” said I. “Very early in the morning I’ll go down to your house and see your father. Then, if he makes no objection, I’ll get you to put on a pretty swimming-suit, all made out of silver scales, and you can show me, there in the sea, how you can dive and swim and play at mermaid. Does that please you?”
She looked earnestly at me, then at Speed.
“Is it a promise?” she asked, in a quivering voice.
“Yes, Jacqueline.”
“Then I thank you, M’sieu Scarlett,... and you, m’sieur, who ride the elephant so splendidly.... And I will be waiting for you when you come.... We live in the house below the Saint-Julien Light.... My father is pilot of the port.... Anybody will tell you.” ...
“I will not forget,” said I.
She bade us good-night very prettily, stepped back out of the circle of torch-light, and vanished—there is no other word for it.
“Gracious,” said Speed, “wasn’t that rather sudden? Or is that the child yonder? No, it’s a bush. Well, Scarlett, there’s an uncanny young one for you—no, not uncanny, but a spirit in its most delicate sense. I’ve an idea she’s going to find poor Byram’s lost luck for him.”