On the strength of this the husband, playing the part of a mad botanist, hunts for her for a score of years, enduring incredible hardships and yet buoyed up by a high and holy trust.

To my mind it was a beautiful and pathetic story.

Still, for reasons which I have suggested, I confess that I hoped that long ago she had returned into the hands of the Power which made her, for what would be the state of a young white lady who for two decades had been at the mercy of these black brutes?
And yet, and yet, after my experience of Mavovo and his Snake, I did not feel inclined to dogmatise about anything.

Who and what was I, that I should venture not only to form opinions, but to thrust them down the throats of others?
After all, how narrow are the limits of the knowledge upon which we base our judgments.

Perhaps the great sea of intuition that surrounds us is safer to float on than are these little islets of individual experience, whereon we are so wont to take our stand.
Meanwhile my duty was not to speculate on the dreams and mental attitudes of others, but like a practical hunter and trader, to carry to a successful issue an expedition that I was well paid to manage, and to dig up a certain rare flower root, if I could find it, in the marketable value of which I had an interest.