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"Who are you?"

"Oh, I'm Dan McGuire."

Nada regarded him with admiring surprise. She knew of him, but could never have imagined that the McGuire who sailed with Williams would be like this lazy-mannered, half-clownish fellow with a long, slightly twisted nose and drooping eyelids. In an instant he was like a friend, an old friend; he knew her island and the people that she knew, and soon she was telling him of herself. Her grey veil lay like mist on the red of the velvet hood, so demure of shape and flagrant in colour. Her voice was vibrant, eager; the words sped along as if blown by gay breath.

"Oh, dear old dad is all broken up. I haven't been home in so long I don't know what all is the matter. The first letter in months came a few days ago. He can't write, you know. Dr. Lemaitre wrote for him. Oreena married to some man that he doesn't like—I've been away so long——

"You see, father—we were little savages; I was, in any case!—sent us to Virginia, to a young ladies' seminary. It was terrible! They called us 'niggers'—those sweet, delicate Southern girls; would put handkerchiefs to their noses and turn away. Oreena nearly died, but she wouldn't say a word. I said a word—lots of words—you can just be sure! I called them—I had read in history—no Southern history though, I should say not!—how their great-great-grandmothers had been dumped on the beach like spoiled fruit because they were—well, just that! Then they almost died, those sweet, delicate girls that called us 'niggers.'