't be cross,' she whispered, sweetly. 'I've had a rotten time, Mr.
Chief. You know everything's been against me from the first.'

"And while I sat there looking out over the golden mist of the river and
succumbing to the magic of her voice, her presence, and the romantic
glamour of her destiny, she began to hum an old air, watching me with a
faint, derisive smile. 'Do you know that song?' she asked, and began to
sing the words.

"'_Ah! Toncouton!
Mo connin toi;
To semble Morico:
Y 'a pas savon
Qui assez blanc
Pour laver to la peau._'"

"'Where did you hear that?' I asked, for I knew it, a Creole song.

"'My mother,' she said, quietly and sadly. 'Now do you understand? I
could never be like other girls, Mr. Chief.' And she began again:

"'_Quand blancs la yo donne yo bal
To pas capable aller
Comment t 'a vaillant giabal
Toi qui l'aime briller!_'"

"'That's me, now,' she said. 'I'm Toucouton after all. Well, I must make
the best of it.' And she sat there, musing, with her hand on my arm.

"'And your father--how is he?' I asked, to change the subject, for I was
moved. An expression came into her face which reminded me of him, an
expression of grave exaltation and secular raptness.

"'Oh,' she said, 'he is developing his properties. There are many
difficulties he did not expect. M. Kinaitsky has promised his
assistance. They are having trouble with another company. And the
_Osmanli_ needs overhauling. They are talking of building a dry-dock.'

"The tea was brought out on the balcony by a menial in blue and silver
livery with white silk stockings, his beautifully manicured hands
arranging the service in front of her. Artemisia did not reply for a
moment as she busied herself with pouring out the tea. She had put on a
_peignoir_ of raw yellow silk covered with heavy gold thread embroidery,
a barbaric thing that must have cost a hundred pounds at least. Round
her neck was a fine chain of platinum holding a large sapphire. Her soft
dark hair was fastened with a massive comb of silver. On her arm were a
dozen bracelets of heavy gold. There was no need to ask about Kinaitsky.
Infatuated! She nodded as much. Very rich. Tobacco estates. Selling his
crop in London now. She rose and came back with a photograph in a large
silver frame.

"Well, he was an improvement upon M. Nikitos. Not old either, as I had
for some reason imagined. Forty-five, I suppose; a solid, hook-nosed