For five days The Tigress chugged her way across the burnished South China, grumpily, as if she resented this meddling with her destiny. The taste of his sweat was intoxicating, like sweet brandy, like blood. Of what use was the temporary set-back to memory, when it always returned with redoubled poignancy? Then came another thought, astonishing. She had changed into dungarees herself and kept her hair as it was. “Why?” “I still love you. ‘Here, miss,’ came faintly from somewhere close at hand. I suppose I ought to have been a man. I am going to make a fresh start. There’s nothing happened at all!” She didn’t mean, he concluded, to give him any more trouble ever, and he was free to begin a fresh chromatic novel—he had just finished the Blue Lagoon, which he thought very beautiful and tender and absolutely irrelevant to Morningside Park—or work in peace at his microtome without bothering about her in the least. You have said a thousand times that there was no shame in you. But she disapproved more and more of her own mental austerity. She was chaffing him about being taken for Meysey Hill, and suggested that he should be presented to me as the millionaire.
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