"You'll find there's a sky-line waiting for you at Sydney," said Farrell; "as like to this one as two peas--and just as impossible to get beyond"--which mayn't seem very good grammar, but is how he said it. "Now to me a sky-line's a sky-line--just something to have you standing against." "You shall have a kiss for that, _caballero_--in a moment," she purred, and slanted the binoculars down to bear on the beach. "Only one passenger," she announced. "Usual inspector, no doubt," said Farrell, rolling a cigarette. "Ye-es--by the look of him. . . . Oh, there's Ylario, all right, talking to the boatman! . . . He must be a stranger, I think--by the way he's staring up at the town." "Ylario was bred and born here; of uncertain parents, to be sure--" She laughed. "Foolish! . . . I meant the inspector, of course." "What's he like?" asked Farrell. "Report." She lowered the glass, twisted the screw of it idly, and returned to her hammock-chair, beside which she set it down on the veranda floor. "Now I'll make a confession to you," she said, picking up her guitar and throwing her body back in the chair. "I love you," she said. "When you are close, and alone with me, my heart feels as if it could melt into yours. . . . No, don't get up: you shall have your kiss, in good time. But when you--what shall I say?--when you _all-white_ men are at all far off, or when many of you are together, I cannot well distinguish. . . . Ah, pardon me, beloved! Haven't you had that trouble with people of other races than your own--among a crowd of Japanese, say? And the shepherds on the mountains behind here--have you not wondered how they can know every sheep in a flock of many hundred?" Farrell was on his feet by this time, and in something of a passion. "Am I, then," he stammered out; "--am I, then, so like any of the others, up at Engelbaum's?" "Calm yourself, O beloved," said Santa, brushing her finger-nails, gipsy-wise and soft as butterflies, over, the strings of her guitar. "Calm yourself, and hearken. You are all the world to me, and you know it. Yet there is something--something I could explain to you better, maybe, if I knew English better . . . and yet I am not sure. . . . Let me try, however. . . . It always seems to me with you English, you Americans, you white-skinned men--with all the ones I have known--that the fault is not all mine when I find you alike just at first; that every one of you ought to be a man quite different from all other men; that you, of your race--yes, every one--were meant for something you have missed--were meant to be--Oh, what is the word?" "'Distinguished?'" suggested Farrell, standing up. "I never was that, Santa--though, back in England, at one time, I had a notion to make some sort of a mark."