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The
time
came
for
my
departure
from
Tahiti
.
According
to
the
gracious
custom
of
the
island
,
presents
were
given
me
by
the
persons
with
whom
I
had
been
thrown
in
contact
—
baskets
made
of
the
leaves
of
the
cocoa
-
nut
tree
,
mats
of
pandanus
,
fans
;
and
Tiare
gave
me
three
little
pearls
and
three
jars
of
guava
-
jelly
made
with
her
own
plump
hands
.
When
the
mail
-
boat
,
stopping
for
twenty
-
four
hours
on
its
way
from
Wellington
to
San
Francisco
,
blew
the
whistle
that
warned
the
passengers
to
get
on
board
,
Tiare
clasped
me
to
her
vast
bosom
,
so
that
I
seemed
to
sink
into
a
billowy
sea
,
and
pressed
her
red
lips
to
mine
.
Tears
glistened
in
her
eyes
.
And
when
we
steamed
slowly
out
of
the
lagoon
,
making
our
way
gingerly
through
the
opening
in
the
reef
,
and
then
steered
for
the
open
sea
,
a
certain
melancholy
fell
upon
me
.
The
breeze
was
laden
still
with
the
pleasant
odours
of
the
land
.
Tahiti
is
very
far
away
,
and
I
knew
that
I
should
never
see
it
again
.
A
chapter
of
my
life
was
closed
,
and
I
felt
a
little
nearer
to
inevitable
death
.
Not
much
more
than
a
month
later
I
was
in
London
;
and
after
I
had
arranged
certain
matters
which
claimed
my
immediate
attention
,
thinking
Mrs
.
Strickland
might
like
to
hear
what
I
knew
of
her
husband
’
s
last
years
,
I
wrote
to
her
.
I
had
not
seen
her
since
long
before
the
war
,
and
I
had
to
look
out
her
address
in
the
telephone
-
book
.
She
made
an
appointment
,
and
I
went
to
the
trim
little
house
on
Campden
Hill
which
she
now
inhabited
.
She
was
by
this
time
a
woman
of
hard
on
sixty
,
but
she
bore
her
years
well
,
and
no
one
would
have
taken
her
for
more
than
fifty
.
Her
face
,
thin
and
not
much
lined
,
was
of
the
sort
that
ages
gracefully
,
so
that
you
thought
in
youth
she
must
have
been
a
much
handsomer
woman
than
in
fact
she
was
.
Her
hair
,
not
yet
very
gray
,
was
becomingly
arranged
,
and
her
black
gown
was
modish
.
I
remembered
having
heard
that
her
sister
,
Mrs
.
MacAndrew
,
outliving
her
husband
but
a
couple
of
years
,
had
left
money
to
Mrs
.
Strickland
;
and
by
the
look
of
the
house
and
the
trim
maid
who
opened
the
door
I
judged
that
it
was
a
sum
adequate
to
keep
the
widow
in
modest
comfort
.
When
I
was
ushered
into
the
drawing
-
room
I
found
that
Mrs
.
Strickland
had
a
visitor
,
and
when
I
discovered
who
he
was
,
I
guessed
that
I
had
been
asked
to
come
at
just
that
time
not
without
intention
.
The
caller
was
Mr
.
Van
Busche
Taylor
,
an
American
,
and
Mrs
.
Strickland
gave
me
particulars
with
a
charming
smile
of
apology
to
him
.
"
You
know
,
we
English
are
so
dreadfully
ignorant
.
You
must
forgive
me
if
it
’
s
necessary
to
explain
.
"
Then
she
turned
to
me
.
"
Mr
.
Van
Busche
Taylor
is
the
distinguished
American
critic
.
If
you
haven
’
t
read
his
book
your
education
has
been
shamefully
neglected
,
and
you
must
repair
the
omission
at
once
.
He
’
s
writing
something
about
dear
Charlie
,
and
he
’
s
come
to
ask
me
if
I
can
help
him
.
"
Mr
.
Van
Busche
Taylor
was
a
very
thin
man
with
a
large
,
bald
head
,
bony
and
shining
;
and
under
the
great
dome
of
his
skull
his
face
,
yellow
,
with
deep
lines
in
it
,
looked
very
small
.
He
was
quiet
and
exceedingly
polite
.
He
spoke
with
the
accent
of
New
England
,
and
there
was
about
his
demeanour
a
bloodless
frigidity
which
made
me
ask
myself
why
on
earth
he
was
busying
himself
with
Charles
Strickland
.
I
had
been
slightly
tickled
at
the
gentleness
which
Mrs
.
Strickland
put
into
her
mention
of
her
husband
’
s
name
,
and
while
the
pair
conversed
I
took
stock
of
the
room
in
which
we
sat
.
Mrs
.
Strickland
had
moved
with
the
times
.
Gone
were
the
Morris
papers
and
gone
the
severe
cretonnes
,
gone
were
the
Arundel
prints
that
had
adorned
the
walls
of
her
drawing
-
room
in
Ashley
Gardens
;
the
room
blazed
with
fantastic
colour
,
and
I
wondered
if
she
knew
that
those
varied
hues
,
which
fashion
had
imposed
upon
her
,
were
due
to
the
dreams
of
a
poor
painter
in
a
South
Sea
island
.
She
gave
me
the
answer
herself
.
"
What
wonderful
cushions
you
have
,
"
said
Mr
.
Van
Busche
Taylor
.
"
Do
you
like
them
?
"
she
said
,
smiling
.
"
Bakst
,
you
know
.
"
And
yet
on
the
walls
were
coloured
reproductions
of
several
of
Strickland
’
s
best
pictures
,
due
to
the
enterprise
of
a
publisher
in
Berlin
.
