"Well, he won't do that here. Tell him about the island, the coconut dance, the wooden tom-toms; read to him. ” He left the room, and she stood motionless, with flaming cheeks, listening to his retreating footsteps. 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. Ray Plote would not leave a written explanation. 1.
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