“I was always 'fraid of p'licemen. And 'ow was I to know that was n't the regular thing in service? Where I came from, before I went to the orphanage, everybody used to knock each other about. And sometimes they used to beat us at the orphanage, but more often they put us in the cell on bread and water. Most of the girls 'drather to be licked. When I was at Smith Street, I thought the cell heaven.” She paused for a moment, and her eyes hardened evilly. “I'm jolly glad she's in quod, though. Will they beat her there?” “No, my dear,” said Herold; “they 're trying to make her good.” She laughed scornfully. “'Er good? If I 'd known then what I know now, I 'd 'ave poured scaldin' water over her. S'welp me!” “I'm very glad you did n't, for you and I would n't be sitting here now by this beautiful sea.” He put his hand gently on her head. “Do you know how you can repay all these people who are so kind to you?” “No,” said Unity. “By trying to forget everything that happened to you in the past. Don't think of it.” “I must,” she replied in a dull, concentrated tone. “I should like to have her 'ere now and cut her throat.” Herold remonstrated, and talked perhaps more platitudinously than was his wont. When he reported this interview to John, for it was from Herold that he learned most of the psychology of Unity Blake, John frowned. “That's a bad trait.” “It will pass,” said Herold. “She has come from the dungeons into the garden of life. She is for the first time just beginning to realize herself as a human being. Naturally the savage peeps out. That will be tamed. She has wonderful latent capacities for good. Already she has invented a kind of religion with Stellamaris as divinity.” “What does she know about Stella?” John asked roughly. “Virtually everything,” laughed Herold. “We talk Stella interminably. When she spoke of throat-cutting, I brought in Stella with great effect. I made her go down on her knees on the big rock and look up at the window and say, 'Princess Stellamaris, I am a bad and wicked girl, and I am very sorry.' She looked so penitent, poor little kid, that I kissed her.” John laughed half contemptuously and then looked glum. “I can never get a word out of her.” “That's not her fault,” said Herold. “She confuses you, in some way, with God. And if you stand over her like an early Hebrew Jah in his most direful aspect, you can't expect the poor child to chirrup like a grasshopper.” “I 'll be glad when I get her under my own control,” said John.