It is hard to characterize her talk. Much of it was utterly unprintable. There were words, words—words! But somehow she seemed innocent of it all, wholly ignorant of any better manner of conversation, any better form of life. She grew immensely in my regard during those few minutes. I have seldom listened to more depraved language and yet a sort of intrinsic virtue—the light of unsulliable youth—shone through. I left them as soon as might be and went to my room. I passed Guiseppe in the hall, he was muttering to himself strange oaths: "_Dios_"—"_Corpo de Bacco_"—"_Sapristi_"—"_Nom de nom_." I silently echoed his multilingual profanity. My passions had not been stirred and, looking at it in cold blood, I could only disapprove. Norman followed me to my room. Conversation did not start easily. But when at last I took my pipe out of my mouth, he cut me off. "Oh, don’t say it. What’s the use? I’m saying it myself. I wish I had long ears to wave, so I could bray. There’s only one thing to discuss. These diggings are as much yours as mine. I’ll take her to a hotel, if you prefer." "Here or elsewhere. What difference does the place make?" I growled. "I haven’t any geographical interest in the case." He thrust his hands deep in his pockets, paced up and down a minute, then turned with an abrupt "good-night" and went out. It was a troubled night for me. The brutal strength of the sex-pull had never seemed so malignant before. That I had begun to see something lovable in Nina, only made it worse. I got up early and although it was Sunday and I had no work at court, I breakfasted in haste, hoping to get out before they appeared. But Norman caught me just as I was leaving. "Come here," he said, with his fingers on his lips. He led me on tiptoe down the hall. Through his open door I could see her sleeping. The coil of her black hair and one white arm showed above the sheet. There was an ugly, half-healed bruise near the elbow. The painted leer had been washed from her face. A smile came and went—flickered—on her lips, a wonderful smile of peaceful happiness. "Am I clean crazy?" Norman whispered fiercely, "or is she beautiful?" We tiptoed back to the library. "Can you keep an eye on her for a while?" he said. "I had to have Guiseppe throw away her clothes—they were too dirty. I must get her some new ones. It won’t take me long." But he stopped at the door and came back. "It’s the way she smiles in her sleep, Arnold, that gets me." He hesitated a moment, trying to find words to fit his thought. He, who was usually so glib, had to search now. "You know, they say dreams are just a re-hash of waking experience. But—well—it isn’t the kind of smile you’d expect from her. God! I’d like to know what she dreams about! It almost makes me feel religious. Reminds me of ’Intimations of Immortality!’"