r the first time under a palm in some far oasis; they were but ice
in a tumbler compared with seracs. He was first a man, and then a
writer. The pitiful opposite is too common.

I think, indeed I am sure, for I know he could not lie, that he was
pleased to see me. What I represented to him then I hardly reckoned at
the time, but I was a messenger from the great world of men; I moved
close to the heart of things; I was fresh from San Francisco, from New
York, from London. He spoke like an exile, but one not discouraged.
Though his physique was of the frailest (I had noted with astonishment
that his thigh as he sat on horseback was hardly thicker than my
forearm), he was alert and gently eager. That soft, brown eye which held
me was full of humour, of pathos, of tenderness, yet I could imagine it
capable of indignation and of power. It might be that his body was
dying, but his mind was young, elastic, and unspoiled by selfishness or
affectation. He had his regrets; they concerned the Samoans greatly.

"Had I come here fifteen years ago I might have ruled these islands."

He imagined it possible that international intrigue might not have
flourished under him. Never had I seen so fragile a man who would be
king. He owned, with a shyly comic glance, that he had leanings towards
buccaneering. The man of action, were he but some shaggy-bearded
shellback, appealed to him. His own physique was his apology for being
merely a writer of novels.

We went on board the steamer, and at his request I bade a steward show
his faithful henchman over her. In the meantime we sat in the saloon and
drank "soft" drinks. It pleased him to talk, and he spoke fluently in a
voice that was musical. He touched a hundred subjects; he developed a
theory of matriarchy. Men loved to steal; women were naturally
receivers. They adored property; their minds ran on possession; they
were domestic materialists. We talked of socialism, of Bully Hayes, of
Royat, of Rudyard Kipling. He regretted greatly not having seen the
author of _Plain Tales from the Hills_.

"He was once coming here. Even now I believe there is mail-matter of his
rotting at the post-office."

I asked him to accept a book I had brought from England, hoping to be
able to give it to him. It was the only book of mine that I thought
worthy of his acceptance. That he knew it pleased me. But he always
desired to please, and pleased without any effort. When the boy came
back from viewing the i