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 on either side of the looking-glass, doubtless in the hope of discovering hidden finery.

"Here are sheets," he said. "There is a quilt on the bed. Now make it up quickly, like a good girl, and be off to sleep. You're safe."

"And make the most of this night, in a proper bed," interposed Mrs. Machin, "for it's likely the last you'll ever have."

The two women faced each other for a moment, as might a cynical old cat and an enquiring, yet self-possessed, little animal of the forest.

Derek hurriedly went downstairs, fearful of a scene. But there was none. He heard the door softly close, then Mrs. Machin's slowly retreating footsteps. He did not go to Durras, as he had intended but, descending the steps to the shore, walked up and down the hard sand, for a long time, smoking.

He saw the light extinguished in the room upstairs. Even yet the whole thing seemed a preposterous dream. That child. . . . Well, he had no doubt about it. Still, it was not the child, but Fawnie, who occupied his thoughts. He saw her in the shack, in the glow of the lantern, her lips folded together in that inscrutable, slightly derisive smile, as though the rest had been puppets gesticulating about her. Then her composure before Mrs. Machin. It was really fine; though, Heaven only knew how her heart may have been tapping on her side. What was there about her? Some odd barbaric charm. Even old Solomon had seen it, known that she was not like the others. "Her man will have to pick for the two of them," he had said. She was a being for love alone—yet love was not the word—it was ridiculous—simply she must be cared for. She was Oriental, like some strange, sweet fruit that allured, even though one knew it were poison.