’Ah, Lasca, you are a fortune girl!—­this beautiful house, this dainty jewel, that rich treasure, all this elegant snow, and sumptuous icebergs and limitless sterility, and public bears and walruses, and noble freedom and largeness and everybody’s admiring eyes upon you, and everybody’s homage and respect at your command without the asking; young, rich, beautiful, sought, courted, envied, not a requirement unsatisfied, not a desire ungratified, nothing to wish for that you cannot have—­it is immeasurable good-fortune!  I have seen myriads of girls, but none of whom these extraordinary things could be truthfully said but you alone.  And you are worthy—­worthy of it all, Lasca—­I believe it in my heart.’

It made her infinitely proud and happy to hear me say this, and she thanked me over and over again for that closing remark, and her voice and eyes showed that she was touched.  Presently she said: 

’Still, it is not all sunshine—­there is a cloudy side.  The burden of wealth is a heavy one to bear.  Sometimes I have doubted if it were not better to be poor—­at least not inordinately rich.  It pains me to see neighbouring tribesmen stare as they pass by, and overhear them say, reverently, one to another, “There—­that is she—­the millionaire’s daughter!” And sometimes they say sorrowfully, “She is rolling in fish-hooks, and I—­I have nothing.”  It breaks my heart.  When I was a child and we were poor, we slept with the door open, if we chose, but now—­now we have to have a night-watchman.  In those days my father was gentle and courteous to all; but now he is austere and haughty and cannot abide familiarity.  Once his family were his sole thought, but now he goes about thinking of his fish-hooks all the time.  And his wealth makes everybody cringing and obsequious to him.  Formerly nobody laughed at his jokes, they being always stale and far-fetched and poor, and destitute of the one element that can really justify a joke—­the element of humour; but now everybody laughs and cackles at these dismal things, and if any fails to do it my father is deeply displeased, and shows it.  Formerly his opinion was not sought upon any matter and was not valuable when he volunteered it; it has that infirmity yet, but, nevertheless, it is sought by all and applauded by all—­and he helps do the applauding himself, having no true delicacy and a plentiful want of tact.  He has lowered the tone of all our tribe.  Once they were a frank and manly race, now they are measly hypocrites, and sodden with servility.  In my heart of hearts I hate all the ways of millionaires!  Our tribe was once plain, simple folk, and content with the bone fish-hooks of their fathers; now they are eaten up with avarice and would sacrifice every sentiment of honour and honesty to possess themselves of the debasing iron fish-hooks of the foreigner.  However, I must not dwell on these sad things.  As I have said, it was my dream to be loved for myself alone.