He was very brave,” she cried. “He was not ‘timid,’ and he was only ‘gentle’ with women and children.”
Mrs. Smith-Jones had never been so shocked in all her life. She sprang to her feet.
“Leave my cabin!” she cried. “I see through your shallow deception. You thoughtlessly betrayed yourself and your vulgar immoralities, and now you try to hide behind a base calumny that pictures my dear, dead boy as one with your. hideous, brutal chief. You shall not deceive me longer. Leave my cabin, please!”
Mr. Smith-Jones stood as one paralyzed. He could not believe in the perfidy of the girl—it seemed impossible that she could have so deceived him—nor yet could he question the integrity of his own ears. It was, of course, too far beyond the pale of reason to attempt to believe that Waldo Emerson and the terrible Thandar were one and the same. The girl had gone too far, and yet he could not believe that she was bad. There must be some explanation.
In the meantime Nadara had left the room, her little chin high in air. Never again, she determined, would she subject herself to the insults of Thandar’s mother. She went on deck. She had found it difficult to remain below during the day. She craved the fresh air, and the excitement to be found
