And yet—­such is the buoyancy of youth—­within a fortnight he began his first novel, pretending to himself that it was on Ruth’s account.  To be alone with her, in idleness, was an intolerable thought.

* * * * *

Coconuts grew perpetually.  There will often be six growths in a single palm.  So proas loaded with nuts were always landing on the beach. The Tigress went prowling for nut, too.  Once, both Ruth and Spurlock accompanied McClintock far south, to an island of blacks; and Spurlock had his first experience with the coconut dance and the booming of wooden tom-toms.

At first Spurlock tasted coconut in his eggs, in what meat he ate; it permeated everything, taste and smell.  For a long time even the strong pipe tobacco (with which McClintock supplied him) possessed a coconut flavour.  Then, mysteriously, he no longer smelled or tasted it.

On the day he carried the manuscript to Copeley’s he brought back a packet of letters, magazines, and newspapers.  McClintock never threw away any advertising matter; in fact, he openly courted pamphlets; and they came from automobile dealers and great mail-order houses, from haberdashers and tailors and manufacturers of hair-tonics, razors, gloves, shoes, open plumbing.  In this way (he informed Spurlock) he kept posted on what was going on in the strictly commercial world.  “Besides, lad, even an advertisement of a cough-drop is something to read.”  So there was always plenty of mail.

Among the commercial enticements McClintock found a real letter.  In privacy he read and reread it a dozen times, and eventually destroyed it by fire.  It was, in his opinion, the most astonishing letter he had ever read.  He hated to destroy it; but that was the obligation imposed; and he was an honourable man.

Not since she had discovered it had Ruth touched or opened the mission Bible; but to-night (the same upon which the wonderful manuscripts started on their long and circuitous voyage to America) she was inexplicably drawn to it.  In all these weeks she had not once knelt to pray.  Why should she? she asked rebelliously.  God had never answered any of her prayers.  But this time she wanted nothing for herself:  she wanted something for Hoddy—­success.  So, not exactly hopefully but earnestly, she returned to the feet of God.  She did not open the Bible but laid it on the edge of the bed, knelt and rested her forehead upon the worn leather cover.

It was not a long prayer.  She said it audibly, having learned long since that an audible prayer was a concentrated one.  And yet, at the end of this prayer a subconscious thought broke through to consciousness.  “And someday let him care for me!”

She sprang up, alarmed.  This unexpected interpolation might spoil the efficacy of all that had gone before.  She hadn’t meant to ask anything for herself.  Her stifled misery had betrayed her.  She had been fighting down this thought for days:  that Hoddy did not care, that he did not love her, that he had mistaken a vagary of the mind for a substance, and now regretted what he had done—­married a girl who was not his equal in anything.  The agony on the sands now ceased to puzzle her.