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But I can do so no longer.
There is something deep down in the soul of Lola Brandt which sets her
apart from the kindly race of womankind; whether it is the devil or
a touch of pre-Adamite splendour or an ancestral catamount, I make
no attempt to determine. At any rate, she is too grand a creature to
fritter her life away on a statistic-hunting and pheasant-shooting young
Briton like Dale Kynnersley. He would never begin to understand her. I
will save her from Dale for her own sake.
All this, ladies and gentlemen, because her eyes fascinated me, and
caused me to hold my breath, and made my heart beat.
And will Captain Vauvenarde understand her? Of course he won't. But then
he is her husband, and husbands are notoriously and _cum privilegio_
dunder-headed. I make no pretensions to understand her, but as I am
neither her lover nor her husband it does not matter. She says nothing
diabolical or eerie or fantastic or feline or pre-Adamite or uncanny or
spiritual; and yet she _is_, in a queer, indescribable way, all these
things.


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