It was a port of call, since fortnightly a British mail-boat dropped her mudhook in the bay. On some insane score she fancied she had to state her case in verse. His face was wreathed in smiles, his beringed hand was cordially outstretched. “I think,” he said, “that you have found the real home of the lotus-eaters. So far the thing was acceptable enough. . What sort of a standard of life yours may be I do not know, yet in your heart you know very well that every word you have spoken to me has been a veiled insult, every time you have come into my presence has been an outrage.
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