Anna stared back at every one with undaunted composure. His face fell. Then as she drew nearer paint showed upon her face, and a harsh purpose behind the quiet expression of her open countenance, and a sort of unreality in her splendor betrayed itself for which Ann Veronica could not recall the right word—a word, half understood, that lurked and hid in her mind, the word “meretricious. She was never able to trace the changes her attitude had undergone, from the time when she believed herself to be the pampered Queen of Fortune, the crown of a good man’s love (and secretly, but nobly, worshipping some one else), to the time when she realized she was in fact just a mannequin for her lover’s imagination, and that he cared no more for the realities of her being, for the things she felt and desired, for the passions and dreams that might move her, than a child cares for the sawdust in its doll. The fact itself is regrettable enough—regrettable, I fear, is quite an inadequate word. “So Brendon and I,” he said, “have been troubled with the same fears. He certainly bore inspection. But I don’t suppose you can understand. Her linen gown was soft against the heavy skins. Horrid snorters! So long, Vee! Just suggested it. “You are very stupid, Anna,” she said. The heroism of two beach combers had saved all on board and their own manhood as well.
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