“I’m not coarse—no! But I’ve got no purity of mind—no real purity of mind. This fruit was McClintock's particular pride. And yet he knew clearly and definitely what he purposed to do, what the future would be. But in its stead—toward morning—there appeared another idea which appealed to him as sublime, appealed to the primitive conscience, to his artistic sense of the drama, to the poet and the novelist in him. ’ Joy rose in Melusine’s bosom. His deduction was correct that the beauty of Ruth Enschede could not remain hidden long even on a forgotten isle. It is most uncomfortable for every one concerned. She still kicked herself for it. “But I must, I will,” he answered fiercely.
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