don't think we will run into Sourabaya this trip." And after such a
declaration he always dived into his cabin muttering to himself,
"Something must be done--must be done." More than once he would astonish
Almayer by walking up to him rapidly, clearing his throat with a powerful
"Hem!" as if he was going to say something, and then turning abruptly
away to lean over the bulwarks in silence, and watch, motionless, for
hours, the gleam and sparkle of the phosphorescent sea along the ship's
side. It was the night before arriving in Sourabaya when one of those
attempts at confidential communication succeeded. After clearing his
throat he spoke. He spoke to some purpose. He wanted Almayer to marry
his adopted daughter. "And don't you kick because you're white!" he
shouted, suddenly, not giving the surprised young man the time to say a
word. "None of that with me! Nobody will see the colour of your wife's
skin. The dollars are too thick for that, I tell you! And mind you,
they will be thicker yet before I die. There will be millions, Kaspar!
Millions I say! And all for her--and for you, if you do what you are
told."

Startled by the unexpected proposal, Almayer hesitated, and remained
silent for a minute. He was gifted with a strong and active imagination,
and in that short space of time he saw, as in a flash of dazzling light,
great piles of shining guilders, and realised all the possibilities of an
opulent existence. The consideration, the indolent ease of life--for
which he felt himself so well fitted--his ships, his warehouses, his
merchandise (old Lingard would not live for ever), and, crowning all, in
the far future gleamed like a fairy palace the big mansion in Amsterdam,
that earthly paradise of his dreams, where, made king amongst men by old
Lingard's money, he would pass the evening of his days in inexpressible
splendour. As to the other side of the picture--the companionship for
life of a Malay girl, that legacy of a boatful of pirates--there was only