scented languor which seemed to melt the
heart. The water was fresh, but not cold; and it was delicious after the
heat of the day. To bathe there refreshed not only the body but the
soul.

At the hour when Lawson went, there was not a soul and he lingered for a
long time, now floating idly in the water, now drying himself in the
evening sun, enjoying the solitude and the friendly silence. He did not
regret London then, nor the life that he had abandoned, for life as it
was seemed complete and exquisite.

It was here that he first saw Ethel.

Occupied till late by letters which had to be finished for the monthly
sailing of the boat next day, he rode down one evening to the pool when
the light was almost failing. He tied up his horse and sauntered to the
bank. A girl was sitting there. She glanced round as he came and
noiselessly slid into the water. She vanished like a naiad startled by
the approach of a mortal. He was surprised and amused. He wondered where
she had hidden herself. He swam downstream and presently saw her sitting
on a rock. She looked at him with uncurious eyes. He called out a
greeting in Samoan.

"_Talofa._"

She answered him, suddenly smiling, and then let herself into the water
again. She swam easily and her hair spread out behind her. He watched
her cross the pool and climb out on the bank. Like all the natives she
bathed in a Mother Hubbard, and the water had made it cling to her
slight body. She wrung out her hair, and as she stood there,
unconcerned, she looked more than ever like a wild creature of the water
or the woods. He saw now that she was half-caste. He swam towards her
and, getting out, addressed her in English.

"You're having a late swim."

She shook back her hair and then let it spread over her shoulders in
luxuriant curls.

"I like it when I'm alone," she said.

"So do I."

She laughed with the childlike frankness of the native. She slipped a
dry Mother Hubbard over her head and, letting down the wet one, stepped
out of it. She wrung it out and was ready to go. She paused a moment
irresolutely and then sauntered off. The night fell suddenly.

Lawson went back to the hotel and, describing her to the men who were in
the lounge shaking dice for drinks, soon discovered who she was. Her
father was a Norwegian called Brevald who was often to be seen in the
bar of the Hotel Metropole drinking rum and water. He was a little old
man, knotted and gnarled like an ancient tree, w