He had diverged only a little from the truth when he said that his chief interest in life was women. Hanging on the wall was a temple censer, bronze, moulded in the shape of a lotus blossom with stem and leaves—deadly as a club. She hated it, she hated the mission-house; she hated the sleek lagoon, the palms, the burning sky. So she went to Ramage and came to the point almost at once. Jack, meanwhile, with Blueskin's assistance, had set the table once more upon its legs, and placing writing materials, which he took from a shelf, upon it, made Shotbolt, who was still gagged, but whose arms were for the moment unbound, sit down before them. To love in such a way, it is excessively selfish. "Won't you take these?" For a space he merely stared at her, perhaps wondering if she were real. I wonder. She had asked to borrow his pencil out of dire necessity.
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