At last she glanced at a little clock in the corner of the room, and sprang to her feet. Something draws everybody. Clotilde flew into a rage, crying, “How dare you lay claim to my children! I am their mother! This is a Godless house!” She accused. The features were indistinct, but was that not a halo of white about it? And the dark shadow below, was that a cloak, or the habit of a nun? Skirting the dancing, from which he had taken a breather—not from lack of energy, but to escape the inanities of the young ladies he had partnered—Gerald made his way to a side door in the saloon and opened it. It hung from the centre of a stout pole, each end of which rested upon the calloused shoulder of a coolie; an ordinary Occidental chair with a foot-rest. Framed in one of the square ports of the packet was a face which reminded Ah Cum of a Japanese theatrical mask. Who could say that the girl's father had not once been a fashionable clergyman in the States and that drink had got him and forced him down, step by step, until—to use the child's odd expression—he had come upon the beach? She was cynical, this spinster. “How has the world taken it?” he asked. Just a friendly polite suggestion. ’ ‘Only because you did not tell me entirely the story? That is silly. You have changed from the veriest butterfly to a woman—you wear different clothes, you have the air of another world.
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