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He nodded. I change them in the morning at Cannon Street, and take my book as I come down. And there arose too, a background of shouts. ‘You damned little fool! How dared you steal my sword?’ Her eyes flew open. Why? He could preach the Word and deny Love!—tame the savage heart, succour broken white men!—pray with his face strained with religious fervour! The idea made her dizzy because it was so inexplicable. To find the incentive! But how? Thither and yon the idea roved, seeking the way. My poor brain is so mixed, dear, I hardly know what I am saying. Supper was over. May I ask the nature of your interest in her?” He hesitated. “Last time I saw you,” he reminded her, “you spoke, did you not, of obtaining some employment in London. But he did not find the sword of monsieur le major, for this sergeant would have recognised it and told me that I am arrested again. After all, where prayer fails, a pistol is bound to succeed. They are the only happy women in the Orient.
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