It was as if she had come upon the beautiful marble façade of a fairy palace, was invited to enter, and behind the door—nothing. She looked directly at his face, his perpetually graying hair, his hawkish nose, his long cheekbones. ‘One of your countrymen, perhaps?’ The girl clammed up, the moon of her white face staring up at him in the darkness. He went on munching his water-chestnuts, and stared at the skyline. For a moment O'Higgins had hoped that the ink applications would be recent. He read "The Beachcombers" to McClintock that night after coffee; and when he had done, the old trader nodded. Again silence.
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