away, and then went seeking another day to bleed; for ever fleeing from
yesterday, and using to-day only as a camping-ground. Suddenly, however,
she came to a stop in her reflections. Her father, Gabriel Druse, was of
the same race as this man, the same unorganized, irresponsible, useless
race, with no weight of civic or social duty upon its shoulders--where
did he stand? Was he no better than such as Jethro Fawe? Was he
inferior to such as Ingolby, or even Tekewani?

She realized that in her father's face there was the look of one who had
no place in the ambitious designs of men, who was not a builder, but a
wayfarer. She had seen the look often of late, and had never read it
until now, when Jethro Fawe stared at her with the boldness of
possession, with the insolence of a soul of lust which had had its
victories.

She read his look, and while one part of her shrank from him as from some
noisome thing, another part of her--to her dismay and anger--understood
him, and did not resent him. It was the Past dragging at her life. It
was inherited predisposition, the unregulated passions of her forebears,
the mating of the fields, the generated dominance of the body, which was
not to be commanded into obscurity, but must taunt and tempt her while
her soul sickened. She put a hand on herself. She must make this man
realize once and for all that they were as far apart as Adam and
Cagliostro. "I never called to you," she said at last. "I did not know
of your existence, and, if I had, then I certainly shouldn't have
called."

"The Gorgios have taken away your mind, or you'd understand," he replied
coolly. "Your soul calls and those that understand come. It isn't that
you know who hears or who is coming--till he comes."