She had drawn the woman down beside her on the rattan couch, and clasping her like a child, nodded toward the piano.

"Go on, as if the doctor hadn't--hadn't stopped." Heywood was first to obey.
"Come, Chantel, chantez! Here's your song." He took the stool in leap-frog fashion, and struck a droll simultaneous discord.

"Come on .-- Well, then, catch me on the chorus!" "Pour qu' j' finisse Mon service Au Tonkin je suis parti!" To a discreet set of verses, he rattled a bravado accompaniment.
Presently Chantel moved to his side, and, with the same spirit, swung into the chorus.

The tumbled white figure on the couch clung to her refuge, her bright hair shining below the girl's quiet, thoughtful face.
She was shaken with convulsive regularity.
In his riot of emotions, Rudolph found an over-mastering shame.

A picture returned,--the Strait of Malacca, this woman in the blue moonlight, a Mistress of Life, rejoicing, alluring,--who was now the single coward in the room.