The honey on his tongue turned to ashes. From the beginning. 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. You won't refuse me, I'm sure; so no more need be said about the matter. He walked on for an hour longer, till he could scarcely drag one leg after another. ‘A spitfire, ain’t she, sir?’ Roding ignored this. He was always doing his best to call her attention to the fact that he was a man of spirit and quality and experience, and she a young and beautiful woman, and that all sorts of constructions upon their relationship were possible, trusting her to go on from that to the idea that all sorts of relationships were possible. She hated it, she hated the mission-house; she hated the sleek lagoon, the palms, the burning sky.
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