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't be cross,' she whispered, sweetly. 'I've had a rotten time, Mr. Chief. You know everything's been against me from the first.' "And while I sat there looking out over the golden mist of the river and succumbing to the magic of her voice, her presence, and the romantic glamour of her destiny, she began to hum an old air, watching me with a faint, derisive smile. 'Do you know that song?' she asked, and began to sing the words. "'_Ah! Toncouton! Mo connin toi; To semble Morico: Y 'a pas savon Qui assez blanc Pour laver to la peau._'" "'Where did you hear that?' I asked, for I knew it, a Creole song. "'My mother,' she said, quietly and sadly. 'Now do you understand? I could never be like other girls, Mr. Chief.' And she began again: "'_Quand blancs la yo donne yo bal To pas capable aller Comment t 'a vaillant giabal Toi qui l'aime briller!_'" "'That's me, now,' she said. 'I'm Toucouton after all. Well, I must make the best of it.' And she sat there, musing, with her hand on my arm. "'And your father--how is he?' I asked, to change the subject, for I was moved. An expression came into her face which reminded me of him, an expression of grave exaltation and secular raptness. "'Oh,' she said, 'he is developing his properties. There are many difficulties he did not expect. M. Kinaitsky has promised his assistance. They are having trouble with another company. And the _Osmanli_ needs overhauling. They are talking of building a dry-dock.' "The tea was brought out on the balcony by a menial in blue and silver livery with white silk stockings, his beautifully manicured hands arranging the service in front of her. Artemisia did not reply for a moment as she busied herself with pouring out the tea. She had put on a _peignoir_ of raw yellow silk covered with heavy gold thread embroidery, a barbaric thing that must have cost a hundred pounds at least. Round her neck was a fine chain of platinum holding a large sapphire. Her soft dark hair was fastened with a massive comb of silver. On her arm were a dozen bracelets of heavy gold. There was no need to ask about Kinaitsky. Infatuated! She nodded as much. Very rich. Tobacco estates. Selling his crop in London now. She rose and came back with a photograph in a large silver frame. "Well, he was an improvement upon M. Nikitos. Not old either, as I had for some reason imagined. Forty-five, I suppose; a solid, hook-nosed
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