forth some of the half-lights of his past. This in itself amazed him;
it proved that he was still weak enough to hunger for human sympathy,
and he of all men deserved none whatever. He had been a fool as a boy,
a fool as a man, and without doubt he would die a fool. He was of half
a mind to leave the boat at Prome and take the train down to Rangoon.

And yet he had told her the truth. It was not right that a young and
attractive woman should wander about in the East, unattended save by a
middle-aged companion. It would provoke the devil in men who were not
wholly bad. Women had the fallible idea that they could read human
nature, and never found out their mistake until after they were
married. He knew her kind. If she wanted to walk through the bazaars
in the evening, she would do so. If a man followed her she would
ignore the fact. If he caught up with her and spoke, she would
continue on as if she had not heard. If a man touched her, she would
rely upon the fire of her eyes. She would never call out for help.
Some women were just that silly.

He bit hard upon the stem of his pipe. What was all this to him? Why
should he bother his head about a woman he had known but a few hours?
Ah, why lie to himself? He knew what Elsa, usually quick and
receptive, did not know, that he was not afraid of her, but terribly
afraid of himself. For things ripen quickly in the East, men and
women, souls and deeds. And he was something like the pariah-dog;
spoken kindly to, it attached itself immediately and enduringly.

He struck the cutty against his boot-heel. Why not? It would be only
for two days. At Rangoon their paths would separate; he would never
see her again. He got up. He would go to her at once and apologize
abjectly. And thus he surrendered to the very devil he had but a