Another picture slid across her vision. She saw herself begin a
slow, sinuous dance: and stop suddenly in the middle of a figure,
conscious that the dance was not impromptu, her own, but native--the
same dance she had quitted but a few minutes gone. She had fallen
into it naturally, the only expression of the dance she had ever
seen or known, and that a stolen sweet. That was odd: when young
people were joyous, they had to express it physically. But native!
She must watch out.

She remembered that she had not gone to bed until two o'clock in
the morning. She had carried a chair into the room veranda and had
watched and listened until the night silences had lengthened and
only occasionally she heard a voice or the rattle of rickshaw
wheels in the courtyard.

The great ordeal--that which she had most dreaded--had proved to be
no ordeal at all. The kindly American consul-general had himself
taken her to the bank, where her banknotes had been exchanged for a
letter of credit, and had thoroughly advised her. Everything had so
far come to pass as the withered old Kanaka woman had foretold.

"The Golden One knows that I have seen the world; therefore follow
my instructions. Never glance sideways at man. Nothing else
matters."

The prison bars of circumstance, they no longer encompassed her.
Her wings were oddly weak, but for all that she could fly. That was
the glorious if bewildering truth. She had left for ever the cage,
the galling leash: she was free. The misty caravans of which she