"That picture was taken after she knew she must die," he says. "They would not let me marry her then."
His eyes are lowered, Eleanor fancies they are moist.
"Fate is very cruel," she murmurs.
"Yes, when the poetry of existence turns to prose, all the light dies out. I can never love again. Sentiment to me now is as a shallow stream."
Quamina appears with the tray of drinks again. Her eyes look wild; she shambles along; her knees knock together.
"What is the matter with that woman?" asks Major Short, as she staggers away.
"She is frightfully superstitious, and some nights ago she thought the devil had come for Carol, and she has never been the same since. She crouches about like a creature demented. Sometimes I fancy she must be insane."
Major Short quotes from Pope with a dry smile:
'Lo! the poor Indian, whose untutored mind,
Sees God in clouds, or hears Him in the wind."
"But there is sense in that," Eleanor declares. "God is in all Nature; every blade of grass manifests Him."