“Oh yes,” said I, carelessly, “it was nothing.  Merely a little fever.  I am out again, as you see.”

We three sat there and talked for half an hour or so.  Then Chloe looked out yearningly and almost piteously across the ocean.  I could see in her sea-blue eyes some deep and intense desire.  Devoe, curse him! saw it too.

“What is it?” we asked, in unison.

“Cocoanut-pudding,” said Chloe, pathetically.  “I’ve wanted some—­oh, so badly, for two days.  It’s got beyond a wish; it’s an obsession.”

“The cocoanut season is over,” said Devoe, in that voice of his that gave thrilling interest to his most commonplace words.  “I hardly think one could be found in Mojada.  The natives never use them except when they are green and the milk is fresh.  They sell all the ripe ones to the fruiterers.”

“Wouldn’t a broiled lobster or a Welsh rabbit do as well?” I remarked, with the engaging idiocy of a pernicious-fever convalescent.

Chloe came as near to pouting as a sweet disposition and a perfect profile would allow her to come.

The Reverend Homer poked his ermine-lined face through the doorway and added a concordance to the conversation.

“Sometimes,” said he, “old Campos keeps the dried nuts in his little store on the hill.  But it would be far better, my daughter, to restrain unusual desires, and partake thankfully of the daily dishes that the Lord has set before us.”

“Stuff!” said I.

“How was that?” asked the Reverend Homer, sharply.

“I say it’s tough,” said I, “to drop into the vernacular, that Miss Greene should be deprived of the food she desires—­a simple thing like kalsomine-pudding.  Perhaps,” I continued, solicitously, “some pickled walnuts or a fricassee of Hungarian butternuts would do as well.”

Every one looked at me with a slight exhibition of curiosity.

Louis Devoe arose and made his adieus.  I watched him until he had sauntered slowly and grandiosely to the corner, around which he turned to reach his great warehouse and store.  Chloe made her excuses, and went inside for a few minutes to attend to some detail affecting the seven-o’clock dinner.  She was a passed mistress in housekeeping.  I had tasted her puddings and bread with beatitude.

When all had gone, I turned casually and saw a basket made of plaited green withes hanging by a nail outside the door-jamb.  With a rush that made my hot temples throb there came vividly to my mind recollections of the head-hunters—­those grim, flinty, relentless little men, never seen, but chilling the warmest noonday by the subtle terror of their concealed presence . . .  From time to time, as vanity or ennui or love or jealousy or ambition may move him, one creeps forth with his snickersnee and takes up the silent trail . . .  Back he comes, triumphant, bearing the severed, gory head of his victim . . .  His particular brown or white maid lingers, with fluttering bosom, casting soft tiger’s eyes at the evidence of his love for her.