hopelessness. The figures at the fires were unkempt, dirty, revolting,
as they gouged and tore at the half-cooked meat into which their yellow
fangs drove deep, as the red blood squirted and trickled from the
corners of their mouths to drip unheeded upon the sweat-stiffened
cotton of their shirts. Savages! And she, Chloe Elliston, at the very
gateway of her empire, fled incontinently to the protection of their
fires!

Wide awake upon her blankets, in the smudge-pungent tent where her two
companions slept heavily, Chloe sat late into the night staring through
the mosquito-barred entrance toward the narrow strip of beach where the
dying fires of the scowmen glowed sullenly in the darkness, pierced now
and again by the fitful flare of a wind-whipped brand. Two still forms
wrapped in ragged blankets, lay like logs where sleep had overcome them.

A short distance removed from the others, the fire of Vermilion burned
brightly. Between this fire and a heavily smoking smudge, four men
played cards upon a blanket spread upon the ground. Silently, save for
an occasional grunt or mumbled word, they played--dealing, tossing into
the centre the amount of their bets, leaning forward to rake in a pot,
or throwing down their cards in disgust, to await the next deal.

The scene was intrinsically savage. At the end of the day's work,
primitive man followed primitive instinct. Gorged to repletion, they
slept, or wasted their substance with the improvidence of
jungle-beasts. And these were the men Chloe Elliston had pictured
labouring joyously in the upbuilding of homes! Once more the feeling
of hopelessness came over her--seemed smothering, stifling her. And a
great wave of longing carried her back to the land of her own
people--the land of convention and sophistry.