The Man from Singapore eyes Jim steadily and continues:—“Does that seem reasonable to you? And does all I have said seem clear, logical, infallibly convincing?” Jim takes the hand of this man and says it is absolutely convincing. I note that Jim looks like a composite portrait of the heirs apparent of all the thrones left in Europe, a weak and pasty fool, but lit up by love. July 10:—Crawling Jim lives but in the eyes of Mara. Everything Singaporian is reasonable while she smiles, and it is all reasonable to her. This doctrine of swallowing the world seems merciful because “father” says it is. And Jim seems to her like a man. He is aflame with desire, such as only the daughter of her voluptuous and gentle mother could provoke, and only such a strong soul as hers could harness. He is a mirror, pouring back the rays of her own romantic glory, and she knows it not. She is incredibly happy, for she thinks she has done a good stroke for Singapore and her own heart. I, even as a Malay, am stirred with a great pity for her. Her father, also, sees Jim as a hero. The serpent Buddha has not made this man and his daughter infallible. July 11:—Mara is near the window looking out through the black velvet hangings, watching for Jim, though it is not time for him to call. Meanwhile there is indeed an interruption to her fancies, she utters not a word, she does not flinch, while there comes north on Mulberry Boulevard Avanel Boone and her maiden cavalry. They are going toward the grave of Hunter Kelly, to take part in the solemn festival in the groves there, and along the great Northwest Road, the festival in celebration of the planting of the first Amaranth orchard there. The girls go by like a white whirlwind, and they give the old Springfield cry used in battle in Asia by their mothers who were young amazons before them. It shrieks and screams and sings down the street: “Springfield Awake! Springfield Aflame!” They know they are going by the house of Mara of Singapore but not one eye turns her way. But the swords, the swords, the Damascus blades, are hissing and glittering in the air. And the Man from Singapore, apparently intent upon his affairs does not turn to look out of the window of the book room. He does not so much as look up from his book of Malay lyrics. He utters one phrase: “The Cats of Cambyses, if we are to take Black Hawk Boone at his word.” I am temporarily of the Singaporians, in my way. I have their poisoned eyes, it seems. So, while I have watched, horse and rider have faded into something new and strange. They go by in semblance as beautiful white tigers. But what of Mara, who regards me as an article of furniture? What has she seen? Apparently nothing but Springfield girls on a wild, lovely, sweet, shrieking revel to which she has not been invited. She feels “snubbed.” She is lonely, weary, in this house and city, though she has a lover and a convert coming within the hour.