We don’t want no trouble, do we?’ At sight of him, everything went out of Melusine’s head but the thought of Jack Kimble. To preach a fine sermon every Sunday so that he would lose neither the art nor the impulse; and this child, in secret rebellion, taking it down in long hand during odd hours in the week! Preaching grandiloquently before a few score natives who understood little beyond the gestures, for the single purpose of warding off disintegration! It reminded the doctor of a stubborn retreat; from barricade to barricade, grimly fighting to keep the enemy at bay, that insidious enemy of the white man in the South Seas—inertia. Her father and her husband, who had both been a little pale at their first encounter, were growing now just faintly flushed. Beauty doesn’t mean, never has meant, anything—anything at all but you.
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