The girl held out an imperious hand and, in perfect English, said:
“Go back!”
Hale drew his long body up to its slim height, folded his arms, and gave her his most winning smile. His insolence added to his wholesome good looks.
“Why?” he exclaimed. “I’ve come a couple of thousand miles to call on you.”
He saw that the eyes which held his levelly were pure and limpid, and of an astonishing orchid-blue.
“Who are you?” Her throaty, vibrant voice was a thing of the flesh, whipping Hale’s senses to sudden madness.
“I’m Hale Oakham,” he said, a little tremulously, “a lone, would-be scientist knocking about the jungle. Won’t you tell me your name?”
She nodded gravely. “I am Aña. I, too, am white.” Her rich voice was quietly proud. “Come; I’ll see if Aimu will receive you.”
With surprising, childlike trust, she held out her little hand to him. The gesture was so delightfully natural that Hale, grinning boyishly, took her hand and held it as they walked down the jungle path.
“Sing for me,” he demanded abruptly. “Sing the song you sang just now.”