"But look at me!" I cried.

Carquinez was ever a demon for haling ones soul out and making rags and
tatters of it.

He looked me witheringly up and down.

"You see no signs," I challenged.

"Decay is insidious," he retorted. "You are rotten ripe."

I laughed and forgave him for his very deviltry. But he refused to be
forgiven.

"Do I not know?" he asked. "The gods always win. I have watched men play
for years what seemed a winning game. In the end they lost."

"Don't you ever make mistakes?" I asked.

He blew many meditative rings of smoke before replying.

"Yes, I was nearly fooled, once. Let me tell you. There was Marvin Fiske.
You remember him? And his Dantesque face and poet's soul, singing his
chant of the flesh, the very priest of Love? And there was Ethel Baird,
whom also you must remember."

"A warm saint," I said.

"That is she! Holy as Love, and sweeter! Just a woman, made for love; and
yet--how shall I say?--drenched through with holiness as your own air here