the mess be spiced, sells, as the Master said, the immortal part of him.

And so Lali, just here on the edge of Marion's future, looking into that
mirror, was catching the reflection of her own life. When two women come
so near that, like the lovers in the Tempest, they have changed eyes, in
so far as to read each other's hearts, even indifferently, which is much
where two women are concerned, there is only one resource, and that is to
fall into each other's arms, and to weep if it be convenient, or to hold
their tears for a more fitting occasion; and most people will admit that
tears need not add to a bride's beauty.

Marion might, therefore, be pardoned if she had her tears in her throat
and not in her eyes, and Lali, if they arose for a moment no higher than
her heart. But they did fall into each other's arms despite veils and
orange blossoms, and somehow Marion had the feeling for Lali that she had
on that first day at Greyhope, four years ago, when standing on the
bridge, the girl looked down into the water, tears dropping on her hands,
and Marion said to her: "Poor girl! poor girl!" The situations were the
same, because Lali had come to a new phase of her life, and what that
phase would be who could tell-happiness or despair?

The usual person might think that Lali was placing herself and her wifely
affection at a rather high price, but then it is about the only thing
that a woman can place high, even though she be one-third a white woman
and two-thirds an Indian. Here was a beautiful woman, who had run the
gamut of a London season, who had played a pretty social part, admirably
trained therefor by one of the best and most cultured families of
England. Besides, why should any woman sell her affections even to her
husband, bargain away her love, the one thing that sanctifies "what God
hath joined let no man put asunder"? Lali was primitive, she was unlike