His face was half hidden under a freshly pipeclayed sola topee—sun-helmet. Besides, Gerald would not for the world have passed up the chance of a little excitement. Jack Kimble stiffened, looking at his interrogator with wary anger in his face. At last—I told a story. He had heard me sing—the fool thought himself in love with me. She responded as he slipped his hands under her sweater. “Why will you not be sensible? Go back to your old life and your old friends, and forget all about Paris and this absurd delusion of yours. I am your servitor. You are one of the Immortals.
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