"A little of it here
would do no harm. But our picturesque visitor has none of it. I've a
great liking for him."
"Already!" breathed out Mrs. Travers, with a smile that touched her lips
with its bright wing and was flown almost before it could be seen.
"There is liking at first sight," affirmed d'Alcacer, "as well as love
at first sight--the coup de foudre--you know."
She looked up for a moment, and he went on, gravely: "I think it is the
truest, the most profound of sentiments. You do not love because of what
is in the other. You love because of something that is in you--something
alive--in yourself." He struck his breast lightly with the tip of one
finger. "A capacity in you. And not everyone may have it--not everyone
deserves to be touched by fire from heaven."
"And die," she said.
He made a slight movement.
"Who can tell? That is as it may be. But it is always a privilege, even
if one must live a little after being burnt."
Through the silence between them, Mr. Travers' voice came plainly,
saying with irritation:
"I've told you already that I do not want you. I've sent a messenger to
the governor of the Straits. Don't be importunate."
Then Lingard, standing with his back to them, growled out something
which must have exasperated Mr. Travers, because his voice was pitched
higher:
"You are playing a dangerous game, I warn you.
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